


Bound and Determined

by leiascully



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Consensual Kink, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Huddling For Warmth, Obliviously in love, Power Dynamics, Romance Novel, Rope Bondage, Slow Burn, Story within a Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-02-25 22:26:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 89,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13222491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: Cassandra presents the Inquisitor with a unusual request: she wants to be tied up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: indeterminate, canon-compliant with certain liberties, male Trevelyan rogue who hasn't romanced Cassandra  
> A/N: When I saw that Cassandra's greatest fear was helplessness, I knew I had to tie her up. This is a WIP which will end in Cassandra/Inquisitor romance, with background Bull/Dorian.  
> Disclaimer: _Dragon Age: Inquisition_ and all related characters are property of Bioware. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

Another night in the Emerald Graves, another night camping under the trees. The fire gilded the undersides of the leaves and branches. The glimpses of night sky through the canopy were scraps of black velvet. Trevelyan stretched his feet toward the fire, the flames warming the soft leather. It was a beautiful night, which was nice, because in the morning they were going to fight a dragon, and so it was pleasant to have what might be the last night of their lives be a lovely one. He'd lost count by now of the nights of his life that might have been the last ones, and just tried to enjoy the light of each new morning. But it was getting late and they'd had a long day sparring against the Free Men. Cassandra had said good night at least an hour ago. Trevelyan was looking forward to his bedroll. 

"I think I'll turn in," he said. 

"Good idea," Iron Bull said. "We'll all need our strength if we're going to fight a dragon." His voice held a deep and salacious satisfaction. 

"I get the feeling that you're not going to conserve all of your strength," Trevelyan teased. 

"Yeah," Bull admitted, "but I'll do it respectfully." He grinned. 

"You certainly will," Dorian said. He shifted on the log that served as a bench and exchanged a significant look with Bull. "I think we'll be up for a while." 

Trevelyan and Cassandra had been tentmates, on the occasions they were traveling together, since Bull had quite literally swept Dorian off his feet and carried him into the other tent. He and Cassandra had looked at each other, shrugged, and found that they didn't mind sharing the more-than-adequate space in the Inquisition's roomy tents. That had been months ago. It had been the easiest solution and one that had brought Trevelyan a satisfaction he tried to hide, though Cassandra seemed indifferent to their sleeping arrangements. He had nearly gotten used to being next to her without being able to put his arm over her hip and pull her close the way he did in his dreams, waking or sleeping. He still woke up sometimes closer to her than he'd started, both of them drifting in their sleep into the other's space. It was more than nothing and less than something and probably all he'd ever get, and that was all right. The Right Hand of the Divine, the last true Seeker of Truth: she was more than he could ever aspire to, Herald of Andraste or not. None of the titles he wore would ever make him worthy of her, whatever his heart whispered in the gentle dark inside their canvas walls. 

Trevelyan scratched at the fabric of the tent he was sharing with Cassandra before entering. Generally she appreciated that sort of courtesy. She still looked startled as he pushed back the flap, stuffing a book under the corner of her bedroll. 

"What are you reading?" Trevelyan asked, stooping under the pitched roof. 

"Nothing!" Cassandra said fiercely.

"And here I thought we were past this," he said, sitting down on his own bedroll. "After _Swords & Shields_, I thought nothing could embarrass you."

"I am not embarrassed," she said, but she wouldn't look at him. 

"Suit yourself," he said with a shrug, kicking off his boots. "I think it's charming that you read love stories."

"This is not entirely a love story," she said and then stopped. Even in the dim light from the lantern, he could see the flush on her cheeks. 

"Must be good to have you all riled up like that," he said, sprawling on top of his bedroll and trying to shove the thin pillow into a more supportive shape. 

"It is very good," she said eagerly. "It is...well. It is very good."

"Should I read it?"

"No!" she said immediately. "It is not the sort of thing the Inquisitor should read."

"The Inquisitor isn't allowed to enjoy a good romance?" he asked. "I've got a heart too, you know. I appreciate a poignant love story."

"I cannot explain it," she said, fidgeting in her bedroll. 

"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Trevelyan told her, turning his head to watch her.

"I do not know if I want to speak of it," she said. 

"All right," he said. "Good night, then."

"I..." she began. "Perhaps I do want to speak of it."

Trevelyan pushed himself up on one elbow. "Tell me about it, then."

"Not here," she said. "I do not want the others to overhear. Especially that Dorian." Her tone managed to convey both nervousness and distaste. "I know how easy it is to hear things that are not meant for others' ears in these camps."

"If you say so," Trevelyan said, amused but trying to keep it from her. It wouldn't do to laugh at Cassandra. 

"When we return to Skyhold," she said. "We can discuss it then."

"Whatever suits you, suits me," Trevelyan said. 

She retrieved the book, covering its title with her palms, and rolled over on her bedroll, clutching the book to her chest. He reached up to hood the lantern and bundled himself into his own bedroll. He could tell from her breathing she wasn't asleep - he knew her breathing intimately now, even imagined he could hear her when she wasn't in the party, or when he was alone in his quarters at Skyhold - but she said nothing, so he followed suit. No power in the world could drag a secret out of Cassandra. He imagined that went double for something that affected her so personally, whatever it was. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, lulled by the murmur of Bull and Dorian's conversation outside and the way that the too-quick rhythm of Cassandra's breath evened and slowed as she too surrendered. 

He had forgotten about it the next day, in the excitement with the dragon and even more Free Men and all of the rest of it. They were a weary but victorious troop as they trekked back to Skyhold. The mountains never got any less steep, though the snow was soothing to his sore legs. 

"It's good to be home," Dorian said. "Despite the fact that it's still fucking freezing on the way there."

"Yeah," Bull grunted, "home is where the beds are soft, the beer is good, and nobody tries to stab you unless you're cheating at cards."

"A succinct and depressing summation," Cassandra said, and Trevelyan smiled into the collar of his coat.

The beds were certainly softer and the beer certainly better than they'd gotten on the road, and Trevelyan was grateful for a few nights' sleep uninterrupted by rocks in his back or bears shuffling past. On the third night after they'd returned, he retired to his quarters after hours with the War Council and the stonemasons to find Cassandra sitting primly on the sofa, a book beside her. He hastily refastened the tunic he'd begun undoing.

"Lady Seeker," he said, "to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Cassandra, please," she said in her stiff and formal way. "Are we not friends?"

"I like to think so," he told her. "Are you well?"

"Yes," she said, "thank you."

She reached for the book beside her, her fingers opening and closing over the cover.

"Did you bring me a book?" he asked, sitting beside her on the sofa.

"It is the book I was reading in the Emerald Graves," she said, shifting it out of his reach. 

"The love story that's not entirely about love," he prompted. 

"Yes," she said, gazing the cover, which he couldn't see through the cage of her fingers. 

"So what is it about?" he asked. 

She sat silently. He could almost hear her weighing the words in her mind, checking the balance of them the way she checked the balance of her weapons. 

"I'm listening," he told her, "but it's getting chilly. I'm going to light the fire."

He laid the logs from the supply that was always brought up for him and kindled a ready blaze. He knelt for a moment on the hearth, listening to the logs crackle and snap as they caught. The Inquisition brought supplies back from all over Thedas. Whatever wood this was smelled nice as it burned, and seemed to have pockets of sap that popped and fizzled. He waited, pretending to tend the fire. 

"It is about trust," Cassandra said into the empty air at his back. 

"Love and trust?" he said. "An excellent combination by all accounts."

"Yes," she said, sounding unhappy. 

"You seem less than pleased," he said, getting up and dusting his hands off as he moved back to the couch. "I thought you liked this book."

"I like it very much," she said. 

"But?" he prompted. 

"I fear I will not find that manner of trust," she said. "Nor that sort of love."

"I hope you feel you can trust me," he offered, saying nothing about the rest. She had never precisely rejected him when he'd flirted with her, but she'd never been particularly enthusiastic about it either. She was studying him now, something hopeful and slightly desperate in her eyes, and suddenly she thrust the book at him. He took it carefully, holding it in both hands.

" _The Knotty Sailor_ ," he read. The cover illustration featured a handsome human man of indeterminate origin holding up an intricately knotted rope and grinning. 

"It is a play on words," Cassandra said. "He ties very good knots, and the subject matter may be perceived as naughty."

"That's very clever," Trevelyan told her. "Is there something else I should know about it before I read it?"

"He does not only tie knots for the boats," Cassandra said. She wouldn't look at him now. She was wringing her fingers in her lap. "He also ties them around a woman. Probably many women, but the story only discusses one."

"I see," Trevelyan said. "And that's where the trust comes in?"

"Yes," Cassandra said. "She must trust him, that he will care for her while she is bound, that he will not let her fall or leave her tied too long. She must have faith that he will release her at her request. The more her movement is limited by his restraints, the more she comes to depend on him. Their faith in each other becomes absolute."

"Is he her kidnapper, or is this recreational knottiness?" Trevelyan asked. 

Cassandra blushed scarlet. "It begins as she is taken captive for her own protection at the request of her family, but it develops into something more. The practical act becomes something that provides her with emotional satisfaction. To be completely under the control of another and not responsible for her fate becomes a comfort. Eventually, the sailor restrains her in order to pleasure her physically. With her consent, of course."

"Ah," Trevelyan said, shifting the book strategically in his lap. Most of the time, it was easy to consider loving Cassandra as some sort of abstract concept. Out among the hills and dales of Thedas, fighting demons and bringing justice to the remnants of the Templars and the Seekers, he could push it to the back of his mind. They were so much more to each other than attraction could account for. But here, next to her on the sofa in his quarters, loving Cassandra was anything but abstract. He could see a pulse in her throat. She had bathed and changed; she was wearing a tunic and breeches something like his, and her hair lay soft and clean against her skull, a few longer wisps gently curling. He longed to reach out and follow the seam of her sleeve down her shoulder with one finger, or to brush an errant lock of hair off her forehead. He tried, and failed, not to think of pleasuring her physically: the sounds she would make, the smooth tension of her muscles under her skin. Maybe they could reenact her favorite scenes. There was something impossibly charming about her love for predictable, overblown romances and the titillating scenes and illustrations that always accompanied them.

"Shall I read the book?" he asked at last. 

"If you like," she said. "But I did not come tonight only to share this tale with you." She looked up, her gaze meeting his squarely. "In the Fade, there was a graveyard. Do you remember?"

He nodded slowly. That had been one of the worst parts of the Fade. It had been easier battling demons than seeing the reminder of his friends' mortality.

"All our markers were carved with our greatest fears," she said. "Mine said helplessness." 

"I remember," he said, thinking of their matching monuments. 

"I do not wish to be afraid of helplessness," she said. "I thought, if I could be bound by someone I trusted, if I could be helpless in a safe place, I might overcome that fear."

"A fearless Cassandra Pentaghast," he mused. "I think you'd become immortal."

"Do not joke about that," she said.

He touched the back of her hand very briefly. "I apologize. You're confiding in me and I shouldn't make light. But you're a very impressive woman. I do wonder what you might accomplish if you conquered your greatest fear."

"So do I," she said. "To that end, I would like you to tie me up."

"Excuse me?" his mouth said, while the rest of his body responded quite positively to the idea and his brain provided a tapestry of images of Cassandra, bound on his bed. 

"I trust you," she said. "I do not trust many people. Additionally, I believe in your discretion."

"Surely Josephine would be even more discreet," his mouth said, as his brain protested.

"I would not wish to shock her," Cassandra demurred. 

"You might be surprised," he said. "And you haven't discussed this with the Iron Bull? It seems like one of his areas of expertise."

"I'm certain it is," she said, "given the various conversations I have inadvertently overheard. However, I would not wish this to be public knowledge. I am not certain that the Iron Bull would not report this to the Ben-Hassarath, or worse, to his lover. I have no confidence in Dorian's discretion." 

"I'm not sure you give him enough credit," Trevelyan said, "but I understand your misgivings."

"If you are unwilling to grant this request," she said, "I ask that you not speak of this to anyone else."

"No," he said, and caught the panic and disappointment in her eyes. "I don't mean, no, I won't do it. Of course I'll do it. I'm happy to do anything that will help you, Cassandra."

"I recognize that it is a great deal to ask of you," she said, looking down.

He took her hand tentatively, holding it more firmly when she didn't draw away. "You've done so much for me," he said. "I would do anything for you." He had intended it as a simple statement of fact, but he could hear the rough raw passion in his own voice. Surely she could hear it too. Surely he was revealed, his devotion to her all laid bare, his soul and his heart as easily read as her books. But she just squeezed his hand warmly. 

"Thank you, my friend," she said, as if he had not confessed everything. 

"I'll need a few days to figure this out," he said. "Is that all right?" 

"I did not anticipate this being something you had particular skill with," she said. "We will begin together. You will know where to find me."

"Training," he said wryly, and she smiled.

"To be the best requires constant effort," she said. From the corner of the couch behind her, she pulled out a bottle of wine. "I brought this in case it became necessary to forget anything happened, but it will serve as well to toast our agreement. This is from my family's estate."

"I'm honored," he said, "but I'm not sure I have any glasses."

"Then I suppose we will have to finish it," she said with a gleam in her eye. "I took the liberty of opening it before you came. I needed something to quiet my nerves." She offered the bottle to him. It was perhaps three-quarters full. Clearly her nerves had needed a considerable amount of quieting.

"My fearless defender, nervous?" he teased. "No one would believe it." He brought the bottle to his lips, acutely aware that her lips had touched the same glass. It wasn't as if he hadn't had romantic encounters before, but Cassandra made him feel like an ingenue, all jitter and shock, double meanings and delight. He took a mouthful of wine and passed the bottle back to her. She put it to her mouth without hesitation. 

"Will you leave this with me?" he asked, holding up the book. 

"Of course," she said. "I am not sure of its practical value as a primer, but I believe it conveys some of the interest."

"Just how far do you want this to go?" he asked, and she took another, larger swallow of wine. "All the way to the epilogue?"

"I do not expect you to pleasure me," she said after a long moment. "That is not a fear I need to overcome. We will begin at the beginning, with simple restraint." 

"I follow your lead," he said, trying to suppress his disappointment. 

"I would not presume," she said, blushing again. "You are the Herald and the Inquisitor. We must continue to work together for the good of the Inquisition. I would not presume that your support of me was anything other than your regard for a close ally. I hope that I am not putting undue pressure on the strength of our friendship."

"That seems reasonable," he said. "I hope that you know that I consider you one of my closest friends."

"And I you," she said warmly. "I know this is a strange request. Thank you for hearing me."

"I'm always happy to listen to you," he said. "I hope that you know you can ask anything of me."

"That means a great deal to me," she said, "more than I can express. Eloquence is not among my virtues." She squeezed his hand again. He'd forgotten somehow that they were still holding hands. He rubbed his thumb experimentally over the ridge of her knuckles and she smiled. 

"You've got plenty of others that make up for it," he assured her. 

"That dragon in the Emerald Graves," she said, passing the wine back to him, their joined hands lying on the sofa next to her knee. "Can you imagine? A dragon that breathes ice instead of fire?"

"Dragons have been unfairly stereotyped," he said solemnly. "We need to bring awareness to dragons that don't breathe fire, like that asshole on the Storm Coast that has some kind of lightning breath, which I didn't find out until I'd already put on everything I could find that had any kind of fire resistance. It took two hours to get out of that rig." 

"Perhaps we should lure one to the Western Approach, or even better, the Hissing Wastes," she said thoughtfully. "I am certain it would improve the morale of our soldiers if they had easier access to ice cream and cold drinks."

"So we've got to not only lure it there and cage it, but also train it to cool things on command?" He chuckled. "Not your best-laid plan, I think."

Her smile was bright. "We must hope for the future, my friend. There will still be worlds to conquer after Corypheus. Why should we not dream impossible dreams? We have already accomplished many things we previously considered impossible."

"You're not wrong," he said. 

"I have faith," she said simply. In the firelight, her eyes shone, and Trevelyan felt his heart crackle and fizz like the logs in the fire. 

They finished the bottle of wine, debriefing their recent adventures, discussing possibilities for a future of infinite promise, an intoxicating vision that sparkled like champagne. They laughed, and the sound warmed the room. 

"I should go," she said at last, the wine long gone. She withdrew her fingers from his, and his hand went pins and needles. He hadn't even noticed his hand falling asleep in hers. 

"Sleep well, Cassandra," he said. 

"I shall," she said, lingering at the top of the stairs. "And you will send for me, when you are ready?"

"I will," he promised, and the look of hope and relief and joy and anticipation on her face would have made him fall in love with her instantly, if he hadn't already done that, an age ago. He reached out as she began to go down the stairs, his hand with the anchor slipping between the bars of the railing, and she touched her fingertips to his and went away. He set the empty bottle of wine on the desk in the corner, a memento of an altogether startling evening, and what he hoped would be the beginning of something that would bind his heart as surely as he bound her limbs.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter One**

Philippe Lefort leaned on the railing of his ship and let the breeze ruffle his chestnut hair. It had taken years to work his way up to being a captain, after he had left his noble family, but the glittering buildings of Val Royeaux were nothing but a façade. The sea was real, and she never let him forget it.

"Trim sail and prepare to dock," he called to his first mate, a strapping fellow with dark skin and short curly hair. 

"Aye, sir," said his first mate, and echoed the instructions to the rest of the crew. Philippe nodded, satisfied, and went to his cabin to review the letter sent by the head of the merchant family. The paper was thick and creamy and bore the embossed crest of the Duvaliers. He and his crew, although their usual business was shipping, were to pretend to kidnap the eldest daughter of the House of Duvalier, Madeleine. A competing family had put out a contract on her life, and she was in constant danger of assassination. Her father, out of love for his daughter, had hired Philippe and the crew of the Caprice to steal Madeleine away. 

Philippe gazed at himself in the mirror and ruffled his hair. Even after all these years on the open sea, he looked too polished to be a ruffian or a mercenary. He would have to smudge his face and squint to play the part of a vicious kidnapper. He scowled at himself in the glass until he was satisfied. 

Madeleine would be preparing for a small ball to be thrown by her father that evening. Philippe and a few select members of his crew would slip in through the side door, left open the the servants, and ambush her in her dressing room. Her father had arranged for a vial of ether disguised as perfume to be hidden among her things. Philippe would use the vial to put her to sleep, and then they would bind her and carry her out. Madeleine would fight fiercely if she woke, her father had warned, and Philippe could sense the pride in his words. Madeleine, her father said in the letter, had inherited the dark hair and blue eyes of the Duvaliers, but she had the temperament of her red-headed, green-eyed mother, and no man in Antiva had yet proven himself capable of handling her. Philippe pushed his hands through his hair one more time and grinned at his reflection. No man in Antiva could handle her, but he was from a noble house of Orlais, and more than capable of overmastering any society belle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan gets help from Dagna and the Iron Bull.

The rope was the easy part. Trevelyan just went to the stores and found cotton and silk and had Dagna twist it into something light but sturdy. 

"I've made lots of rope!" Dagna said, doing whatever it was she did. "This should be good for anything, really. Whatever you want to tie it around. It's nice and smooth, but it still has tooth."

"It has teeth?" Trevelyan asked.

Dagna laughed. "No, it has tooth. It holds to itself. That means knots are less likely to slip out than they would be with just silk. It's the cotton that does it. Cotton creates more friction than silk does. Tooth." 

"I see," Trevelyan said dubiously. 

"It's a good thing," Dagna assured him. "Without tooth, whatever knot you tied might just fall apart, and depending on what you're using it for, that could be really bad."

"That's true," he said, still dubious. 

"It's a good rope," she told him. "Soft but still strong. It shouldn't rub too much in case you're planning on using it somewhere where it'll touch something's skin. Cotton and silk work really well for that kind of rope. You could make a halter out of it, or a harness, or I guess you could use it to escape from a room that wasn't too high up, although for that, I'd suggest something more along the lines of jute. You'd have blisters, but you need the extra roughness to keep your grip on it."

"I'm not planning on using it to escape from any rooms," he assured her, though he was sure his face gave something away.

"Well, it's none of my business," Dagna said cheerfully. "Just here to make sure everything is made right!"

"Could you enchant it to untie itself if I say a certain word?" he asked, struck by a sudden thought. If Cassandra changed her mind mid-binding, or if things got complicated, that might be awkward. Having a quick solution seemed important. He didn't want this cause any incidents that might ruin whatever he and Cassandra had built, in case something about it was more than either of them had bargained for. All the trust in the world couldn't guarantee things would go right. He certainly wasn't Philippe Lefort. 

"Sure!" said Dagna. "What word do you want?"

He considered for a moment. Nothing too obvious, nothing too common. "Filomena," he said at last. It was one of Cassandra's many names, but not one that most people would know, and certainly something that neither of them would ever say without some kind of provocation. She had been charmingly angry about it when she'd been announced at Celene's ball. Yes, Filomena would work. 

"Like filament!" Dagna said. "That's nice. A filament is a kind of rope, if you think about it. It's just a matter of scale." 

"Of course," Trevelyan said. "That's why I chose it."

"I like when things go together," Dagna said brightly. "The enchantment will take a little while because I need to make sure it's in every fiber of the rope, but come back this evening and I'll have everything perfect for you. Oh! And I'm working on a sort of disc that you could carry with you and put into your bedroll or your tunic or whatever. It's got a frost rune and a fire rune built in, so you can warm or cool it as you need. What do you think? Eventually I want to make armor that does it too. That way the Inquisition can stay cool in the Western Approach and warm in Emprise du Lion." She offered him a thin disc about the size of his palm. "Just trace this rune with your fingertip if you want it to heat up, and this one if you want it to get cold." 

"Dagna, this is amazing," he said, trying the fire rune. The disc immediately warmed to just shy of uncomfortable heat. "You're a genius."

"I'm just happy to be able to make things!" she said. "It's really nice here. Even Harritt isn't so bad, although he doesn't like to make anything that's really new. Just the same old things, but better. I guess that's all right."

Trevelyan looked around. "Where is Harritt?"

"He said he needed a break," Dagna said with a shrug. "I think he's in the courtyard?"

"That's probably for the best," Trevelyan said, considering the rope's purpose, and then realized he had spoken out loud. "It's important to take some time once in a while to recover."

"You're right, Inquisitor," Dagna said. "Maybe I'll go take a walk when I'm finished with your rope. Maybe I'll find some new herbs. Oooh, maybe I'll find a way to infuse cloth with the healing power of elfroot. I bet I could make some incredible bandages. Maybe even an undershirt."

"I'm sure you can do anything, Dagna," he said. "Thank you for all your help."

"Of course!" she said. "Don't forget to come back this evening."

"I won't," he promised.

He made his way to the tavern next, going over in his mind exactly how he was going to phrase his request. Bull was in his usual seat, lounging and drinking. 

"What's happening, Boss?" he said amiably as Trevelyan approached. 

"Could we have a conversation?" Trevelyan said. 

"Of course," Bull told him, patting the chair next to him. "Have a seat."

"A private conversation," Trevelyan said, and Bull grinned.

"Interesting," he said. "Follow me." 

They ended up in a room that was smaller than Trevelyan would have expected, although it was clearly marked as Bull's territory: empty bottles, heaps of leather straps, and enormous weapons few in the Inquisition could wield lay on the various surfaces or leaned up against the wall. 

"What do you need?" Bull asked, sitting in a chair. He leaned forward, his chin balanced on his fingertips.

"I need to learn how to tie a knot," Trevelyan said. 

"I'd be embarrassed too," Bull said after a brief pause. "I'm amazed you've been able to dress yourself all these years."

"Not that kind of knot," Trevelyan said. "A different kind."

"You know I'm going to make you say it," Bull told him.

Trevelyan took a deep breath. "I need to know how to tie the kind of knot that might be useful in a bedroom situation." 

"There it is," Bull said with satisfaction. "Yeah, I can teach you. Where do you want to start?"

"Something simple," Trevelyan said. "I've been doing some reading, but I can't figure it out on my own." 

"If Cassandra finds out you've been stealing her romance novels and using those techniques on some lithe young thing who works in the kitchens, you'll be in bigger trouble than I can save you from," Bull said. "Or did you borrow a book from that elf in the library? I bet he wouldn't say no to a half-hitch." 

"Just something I picked up around Thedas somewhere," Trevelyan said, hoping for an airy tone. "Probably that shop in Val Royeaux. Or maybe somebody left it in Skyhold. I can't remember where all these things came from."

"Uh huh," said Bull, clearly skeptical. "Well, if this reading material inspired you to explore the finer uses of ropes, straps, and restraints, you've come to the right place."

"Can I trust in your discretion?" Trevelyan asked.

"You mean, will I tell Dorian that the Inquisitor came looking for advice on how to tie someone up and share my theories on exactly who that lucky person might be?" Bull asked. "Come on, boss. I keep secrets for a living." He grinned. "Besides, I like knowing something he doesn't know. It keeps things exciting."

"I appreciate that," Trevelyan said. 

Bull got up and dug around in a drawer, coming up with a length of rope. "We'll start with the wrists," he said. "If you're really committed to this, boss, it's going to be a process. _Aarhaat ven saatha Par Vollen aan quaalsaana_."

"The Qunari have a saying that involves bondage?" Trevelyan asked. "I suppose I'm not entirely surprised."

Bull laughed uproariously. "We do," he said, "but it's much less pithy. This translates to something like 'Par Vollen wasn't built overnight'. But, you know, not really. That's just the closest I can get to something you might understand. Lie down." 

"Lie down?" 

Bull nodded. "You're inexperienced. I presume this lover of literature is inexperienced. It's going to be easiest if you have them lie down. Something like this, you've got to teach by example. Lie down."

"All right." Trevelyan went to the bed and lay on his back, feeling awkward. The blankets smelled like sweat and cinnamon. 

"Hold up your forearms," Bull said, kneeling by Trevelyan's side. He held the rope doubled over in his hands, so that one end made a loop. "Elbows together."

Trevelyan followed instructions dutifully. There was a low hum of excitement in his bones. The sight of Bull bending over him was an intimidating one, even knowing that Bull would be gentle. 

"The loop end is called the bight," Bull said. "You don't really need to know that now, but it'll make things easier in the long run if I don't have to start at the beginning every time you want to learn something new."

"Bight," Trevelyan said. "Tooth. This is a very mouthy experience so far."

Bull chuckled. "It gets mouthier, if you're lucky." He held the bight in one hand and used the other to wrap the doubled cord around Trevelyan's wrist. "Two or three wraps should do the trick here. Then you cross the bight around the working end - that's called a friction. It's a sort of half-knot. That way you keep tension without tying off." He continued wrapping the bight around the wrist loops, taking the rope between Trevelyan's palms. "Make a loop in the working and and bring the bight through, then under the wrist wraps, and then through the loop again. Tighten up by pulling on the working end, and there you are." He tugged gently at the loose end of the rope until Trevelyan's wrists were snugly bound to each other, his palms touching as if he was praying. Trevelyan pulled experimentally, trying to loosen the bonds, but they stayed. There was something thrilling about it that he couldn't define. Bull could essentially do what he wanted. He could leave Trevelyan here and go and tell Dorian everything. Trevelyan couldn't get out of the ropes on his own. Even if he got off the bed and out of the room, he'd still be bound and have to ask for help to free himself. 

"With the knot on the bottom of the wrists, whoever you're tying up can't reach it," Bull said with satisfaction. "Simple. Effective. You'd be amazed what people can do with their teeth otherwise."

"I probably would," Trevelyan said, feeling a little dazed. It wasn't like he'd never been restrained before - Cassandra shackling him came to mind, now with more dimensions of possibility - but there was something different about this explicitly recreational bondage. Bull might call him boss and defer to him in their usual relationship, but Trevelyan was extremely aware, with his hands tied, how much bigger Bull was than he was, and how much Trevelyan needed his hands to mount any kind of defense. Not that he needed to defend himself in this situation, but he felt the differences between them much more acutely than usual. He'd come to rely on Bull's size and strength as an ally. Now the power between them had shifted; he'd given Bull almost complete control, trusting in Bull's good will. The pressure of the rope around his wrists was comforting and frightening all at once, a promise and a caution. It was a different kind of relationship, a new dependence, and much more emotional than he'd expected. 

"You all right?" Bull asked, patting him on the shoulder. "Everyone handles it differently."

"I'm all right," Trevelyan assured him. "Show me again?"

Bull released him, walked him through it again, did it all over, and then made Trevelyan practice the wrist tie on him over and over until he was satisfied that Trevelyan could do it smoothly without prompting or hesitation. Trevelyan felt the excitement building in his stomach again. It was thrilling to lean over Bull and to understand the strength involved in submitting to be bound. 

"You can't do this without confidence," Bull said. "You've got to be in charge of the situation. Your bottom feels safest when they know you're in command."

"Easier said than done," muttered Trevelyan, pulling the knot tight again. The tendons in Bull's wrists stood out as he strained against the tension of the rope, nodding in satisfaction when it held.

"Fake it 'til you make it, boss," he said. "Isn't that what the whole Inquisition's been about?"

"Fair enough," said Trevelyan. 

"You'll do fine," Bull said. "Now untie me and go put your skills to work. Cabot's beer won't drink itself, as far as I know, and I've got some inspiration to bring to bear on my own willing subject."

"I appreciate this, Bull," Trevelyan said. 

"Come back any time," Bull said. "I've got plenty more to teach." He gripped Trevelyan's shoulder. "You did good. Make me proud."

"I will," Trevelyan said. 

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Two**

Madeleine came to somewhere that moved gently under her. Her head snapped up and she gasped as she regained consciousness. The space around her was dim, lit only by a lantern, but as her eyes adjusted, she could see that she was in a small, well-appointed room, where she was currently tied to a chair. She strained at the ropes that bound her. They were snug without being tight. Her wrists were bound in her lap, and the cords looped over her thighs and under the chair, so that she couldn't move her legs or her arms. The rope crisscrossed its way between her breasts and over her shoulders, holding her firmly to the chair. She rocked experimentally. The chair was bolted to the floor. When she looked down, she saw that the table and the bed were also secured. The slightly curved walls of the room suddenly made sense. She was on a ship.

The door opened, and a shapely masculine silhouette filled the doorway. 

"Ah," he said, "you're awake. Good." His voice was warm and low. 

"How dare you," she said, her voice shaking with anger. 

"Easy, Lady Duvalier," he said. "I mean you no harm."

"You've tied me up!" she spat. 

"Much kinder than letting you roll with the waves," he said. "Allow me to introduce myself. Captain Philippe Lefort, master of the Caprice. You're safe here."

"I was safe in my bedroom until you came along," she said. 

"Ah, but you're wrong there," he said. "Trust me, Lady Duvalier. You're much more secure in my tender clutches."

"They don't feel particularly tender," she said. "Release me at once."

"In good time," he said. 

She strained against the ropes again.

"You'll only hurt yourself if you struggle," he told her. "The ropes are quite secure. I tied every knot myself. I won't let anybody else touch you, but I can't release you until I'm certain you won't endanger yourself or my crew by trying something foolish. If you were to promise me you would follow my instructions, I could set you free. Until then, I'm afraid you must be restrained."

"Then I suppose I must learn to love the ropes," she said fiercely. "I will never submit to a ruffian like you."

"Suit yourself, my lady," he said, and his mild tone only infuriated her further. "I'll be back to escort you to the head and to dinner. You must entertain yourself in the meantime. There are matters I must attend to."

"Go," she said. "Please, get out of my sight."

He inclined his head, as if he were taking his leave after a dance. "Enjoy your stay, my lady." He was gone before she could formulate a witty retort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am deeply indebted to [Rope Connections](https://www.ropeconnections.com/my-favorite-way-of-tying-wrists/) for pro tips on how to tie people up, and to sabinelagrande for letting me practice on her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dagna's rope comes in handy.

Dagna had produced the rope by dinnertime. It was a pale, slightly glossy coil with a pleasing weight, smooth to the touch. Trevelyan tied a few experimental knots in it: they held without slipping, and came undone easily. 

"Use it in good health!" she said. "You've got about twenty yards there. You should be able to cut it without breaking the enchantment if you need smaller pieces. Let me know if it doesn't do everything you need it to do, or if you need more. "

"I will," Trevelyan promised. "Thank you, Dagna."

"Any time!" she said, already turning back to her next project. 

Trevelyan climbed the stairs to his quarters, the rope concealed under his arm. No one had paid much attention as he'd crossed the main hall, thank the Lady. A small mercy.

He stood in the middle of the room with the rope in his hands. He was restless. He wished Cassandra was there. He could give the book back to her. He could let her feel the way the rope would slip through her fingers and imagine it against the rest of her skin. He could bind her wrists and slip Dagna's disc between her palms, warming and cooling her as they discussed the potential military applications. More plausible than dragons making ice cream, anyway. He laid the coil of rope carefully on his desk.

Maybe it was better this way. He needed to keep the book for now and reread the parts he suspected she liked the best, looking for cues on how to play all of this: how she might like to be bound, what would give her that giddy combination of powerlessness and comfort he'd felt in Bull's care. 

He paced the room, full of nervous energy for no reason at all. He tried building a fire, which didn't help, and rereading one of the later chapters of _The Knotty Sailor_ , which certainly didn't help. He cut a length of rope that seemed about the same as the one Bull had used on him and practiced tying together the fireplace poker and shovel and the hilts of his sheathed daggers. They weren't the right size to approximate Cassandra's wrists, but it helped him calm down. Bull had taught him well. It was becoming automatic to twist and wrap. He locked down the knot on the daggers and looked at it with satisfaction. 

"Filomena," he said experimentally, and the rope slithered out of its knots immediately, falling to the floor. He picked it up and slipped it around his own wrist, pulling the loose ends through the loop of the bight. It was too easy to make the rope too tight that way, but there was a satisfaction in tugging at it. He imagined Cassandra wrapping the rope around her fist, pulling him closer. 

There was the sound of footsteps in the corridor that lead to his quarters, and he froze, then shoved the rope under the hem of his sleeve. The relief when Cassandra's voice floated up was immense, his stomach unclenching and then knotting itself up again with nervousness.

"Inquisitor?" she said. 

"Good evening," he said, going to the top of the stairs to meet her. 

"I saw you earlier in the hall," she said. "I wanted to see if you'd had a chance to...well, to read the book."

"I did," he said. "I stayed up much too late, but it was very compelling."

"I am glad you think so," she said, pink rising in her cheeks. "It is one of my favorites." 

"Would you like to sit down?" he offered, motioning to the sofa. 

"I do not want to intrude," she said, ducking her head. "I know we agreed that we would wait a few days to discuss this matter, but I needed to know if you had changed your mind." He could see her fingers curling at her sides, as if she wanted to tug at her tunic or make fists to fight back whatever she was feeling. 

"I haven't," he said quickly. "I'm still willing if you are." He slid the short section of rope from under his sleeve and pulled it from his wrist, offering it to her. Her eyes widened and she took it, letting it ease through her fingers. He could see how her breath quickened, her chest rising and falling faster at the feel of the rope against her skin, but the tightness around her eyes had eased. 

"I had Dagna make it," he said. "Don't worry. I didn't tell her what it was for."

"Dagna is not entirely on this plane of existence," she said, still drawing the rope through her fingers. He watched her, half-hypnotized. "I doubt this would even occur to her."

"I also had a conversation with Bull," he said, and her lips thinned. "He doesn't know either. He thinks I'm trying to seduce one of the troops or the kitchen workers, or possibly the elf who works in the library."

"I suppose I must trust you," she said. 

"That does seem to be the point of all this," he agreed. He reached for the trailing end of the rope, winding it around his hand. "I promise that I will never put your honor or your reputation at risk. I swear by Andraste's light." 

"I believe you," she said, looking him straight in the eye, and his heart jumped. How far they had come from the Temple of Sacred Ashes. 

"I learned something new today," he said. "May I show you?"

"Something relevant to all of this?" she asked. They were still linked by the rope that was wrapped around each of their hands. 

"Very relevant," he said. 

"I think I would enjoy that very much," she said. 

He glanced between the sofa and the bed, letting go of his end of the rope. "You'll need to lie down."

"Lie down?" she said, sounding slightly alarmed. "I'm not certain you understand what I hope this to be."

"I understand," he assured her. "I promise I'm not overstepping the terms of our agreement. It's just easier if you lie down." 

Her lips quirked, but she nodded and stretched out on the sofa, lying on her back with her hands on her stomach. It seemed easiest to kneel beside the sofa, so he dropped a cushion on the floor and did just that. 

"Tell me any time if you want me to stop," he said.

"I will," she said.

"If things are ever too much or it starts to hurt, I had Dagna enchant the rope," he told her. "If you say the word 'Filomena', it should untie itself."

"Filomena?" she asked, her nose wrinkling. "That cannot be a coincidence."

"I thought it had better be something you'd never say," he teased, and she smiled. He reached for her hands and met her eyes, waiting for her signal before he touched her. She nodded again, very slightly, and he took both of her hands in his, gently untangling the rope from her fingers. He let the coil of it fall on her stomach. She drew in a sharp breath as he encircled her wrists with the fingers of his right hand, sliding his left hand down her forearms to press her elbows together. 

"Stay still, please," he said, and he picked up the rope, feeling her stomach muscles flex against his fingertips. To calm himself and her, he described each step of making the knot, explaining the vocabulary he'd learned, showing her how the tension could be adjusted. "I draw the bight through this loop," he told her, "and under here, and again through the loop, and then adjust as necessary." She lay on the sofa with her bound hands resting on her chest, her eyes wide and dark and her cheeks lightly flushed. He slid his fingers under the loops to make sure her skin wasn't caught and that the cords lay smooth and tidy. 

"I feel...perhaps speaking to Iron Bull was a good idea," she said. 

"Do you feel strange?" he asked. "I felt strange."

"Why did you feel strange?" she asked. 

"Bull did the same for me," he told her. "Apparently it's the best way to learn. Are you all right?"

"I am fine," she said, "but I would like to sit up." 

"Do you want help, or would you like to do it on your own?" he asked.

"I can manage," she said, swinging her legs off the couch. She hunched her shoulders and heaved herself up. "That was more difficult than I expected." 

"It's astonishing how much you use your hands," he agreed.

"Sit with me?" she asked, and he rose from his knees to settle on the sofa. The cushions were still warm where she had been lying. He watched her test her bonds exactly as he had earlier in the day. He had tied the knots well after his practice on Bull. She had just enough room to move, not enough room to wiggle herself out of the bonds. They weren't too restrictive. She wouldn't feel trapped.

"I don't feel as helpless as I thought I would," she said slowly. "My wrists may be bound, but I have many resources at my disposal. I could still kick. I could wield a dagger with both hands, if not a sword."

"You could still beat me in a duel," he said, "and probably most of the Inquisition's army." 

She snorted. "Your faith in me is misplaced, Trevelyan," she said, "but I thank you for it. And for this."

"I felt very comforted," he told her. "When I was tied up. I'm sure it wouldn't be true in all situations, but I knew Bull would take care of me. He'd let me go if I couldn't handle it, or loosen the rope if it was too tight. My happiness and safety mattered to him." 

"Yes," she said thoughtfully, "I feel that as well. You would not let me come to harm." 

"Never," he said, a little too fervently, but it stirred something deep inside him, to see her sitting patiently in the bonds he had tied. 

They looked at each other for a long moment. He leaned forward and felt the edges of Dagna's disc in his tunic pocket. He pulled it out and traced the fire rune once more.

"What is that?" Cassandra asked.

"Open your hands," he told her. For a moment there was a spark of resistance in her eyes, and then she spread her fingers with a deliberateness that told him not to push the boundaries of their agreement. She was not under his command, only under his protection. He slipped the disc between her fingers and she gasped.

"It's warm!"

"Another of Dagna's projects," he said. "You can make it cold too. She's thinking about making armor that does the same thing." 

"That would be amazing," she said. "Our troops in Emprise du Lion are always cold."

"And in the Forbidden Oasis, they're always hot," he said. "Much easier than training a dragon. Not that I didn't believe you could do it."

"One day," she said, smiling at him. "One day I will train a dragon to chill my wine." 

Her moments of whimsy were rare and unspeakably precious to him; he laughed out loud, startled by his own joy. For months after they'd met, he hadn't been sure if she'd even known how to let down her guard, but she always managed to surprise him. Cassandra Pentaghast, feared by all of Thedas, sat on his sofa trying not to giggle at her own joke. 

"If anybody could bend an ice dragon to their will, it would be you," he told her. 

"Will you read to me?" she asked. "I would like to wear this for a little while, and it might pass the time."

"If you like," he said. "That modern classic _Hard in Hightown_? _Swords & Shields_? One of the histories Dorian keeps putting pointedly on my desk? Or the book that got us here?"

"That one," she said decisively. "I would feel strange listening to Varric's words in such a situation."

"If Varric knew he had a captive audience, so to speak, you'd never stop him," Trevelyan said. 

"Maker's breath," said Cassandra, looking stricken, "I cannot decide if that would be heaven or hell."

"Hypothetically, of course," Trevelyan said quickly. He fetched Cassandra's copy of _The Knotty Sailor_ from the dresser and returned to the sofa. She had pulled her feet up onto the sofa, bracing her back against the arm of it. Her bound wrists rested against her bent knees. 

"Shall I take your boots off for you?" he offered. 

"That would be nice," she said, not quite meetings his eyes. "I am not certain I could manage on my own."

He tugged off her boots and set them on the floor. Her toes in their thick wool stockings rested against his thigh. He determinedly thought nothing of it; she had to brace her feet at a certain angle to support her back. He opened the book, folding the cover back carefully.

" _The Knotty Sailor_ ," he began. "Chapter one. Philippe Lefort leaned on the railing of his ship and let the breeze ruffle his chestnut hair...."

They finished two chapters, neither very long, before he unbound her wrists. It didn't seem right to leave her restrained for too long. He picked apart the knots and massaged her skin gently where the cord had left faint marks. She flexed her fingers as if they had fallen asleep and handed the warm and cold disc back to him before bending to put her boots back on. 

"Thank you," she said, straightening. "I had a lovely evening."

"As did I," he told her. "Please feel free to come back any time. I don't think Josephine has engaged me for any evening meetings."

"I wouldn't want to impose," she said, her eyes cast down.

"Cassandra," he said, catching her hand, "I swear to you this is no imposition." 

She stood still, gazing at him. 

"I appreciate that, Trevelyan," she said quietly.

"Please call me Max," he said. "At least here and now, when it's only the two of us. I understand it may not feel appropriate in front of the others, but the formality really isn't necessary. Especially not now. I don't want things to be uneven between us."

"Max," she said experimentally. "How strange it sounds to call you by your given name after so long."

"It's better than 'prisoner'," he teased. 

"Yes," she said, ducking her head. "I apologize for that."

"You did the right thing," Trevelyan told her. "You needed to protect your people. Besides, in a way, that was the start of this particular situation, given that you had me in shackles."

"An excellent day," she mused, mischief in her eyes. "Perhaps one day it will be your turn again."

"Perhaps it will," he said.

She seemed to recall she was still holding his hand and released it. "Good night, Max."

"Good night, Cassandra," he said, and watched her walk down the stairs. 

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Three**

Madeleine had grown used to her bonds. Captain Lefort had untied her for meals and to use the head, though he secured her to her chair in his cabin, and he bound her wrists loosely as he lead her through the ship. The touch of the ropes had become a comfort to her. When the ship tossed in rough seas, she was secure in her comfortable chair. When she stumbled in the corridor, Captain Lefort caught her with one hand supporting her bound arms. At night, a cleverly fastened net kept her blankets from shifting. He had even let her take the air on deck, though he'd tied her arms loosely behind her and hobbled her ankles, apologizing as he lifted her skirts. She was, in many ways, the safest person on the ship. The sailors scrambled through the rigging and across the deck with no safety lines. Meanwhile, she was almost always attached to something. There was little chance of her falling overboard. 

She still hadn't determined why exactly Philippe Lefort had kidnapped her. She'd heard him and the Caprice spoken of before in vague terms, of course. As the daughter of a leading merchant house of Antiva, she had grown up knowing the names of almost every ship in the harbor. Given that she stood to inherit her father's fortune and his shipping empire, she had kept up with each new craft.

The one thing her family's network of informers hadn't told her was how handsome the young Captain Lefort was. She looked forward to her trips to the deck, seeing him kneel before her, and to the way he bundled her into the bunk at night, manipulating her with strong and capable hands. He had elegant fingers, the kind she would have admired at her father's dinner parties, understanding the unspoken promise of them. 

She had been on the ship for nearly a week when he came to her cabin, a sailor behind him lugging a trunk she recognized. It wasn't the first time that morning she'd seen him. Captain Lefort always came personally to release her from her netted bed and to oversee her morning meal and her attendance to her personal needs. Afterwards, he always tied her to her chair again, drawing the cords across her body with practiced skill. 

"Where did you get my clothes?" she asked, drawing herself up as archly as her bonds would allow. He had the sailor set the trunk down and then dismissed him. It was just the two of them in her little cabin. She took a deep breath. He smelled of bay rum and salt air, a fresh spicy fragrance that perfectly complemented his masculine silhouette.

"I stole them away from your home when I took you," he said. "Can I trust you to bathe and clothe yourself without attempting an escape, Lady Duvalier?"

"Of course not," she said, tossing her dark hair, but his brown eyes were penetrating, and she could not hide her plans from him. She lowered her own gaze. "Captain Lefort, I would count it a kindness if you allowed me such luxuries. In truth, I have no intention of leaping over the rail of the ship."

"I am delighted to hear it, Lady Duvalier," he said. "You'll understand if I don't allow you on deck without some sort of restraint."

"Naturally," she said. 

"I'll have the sailors bring you hot water," he said. "I realized it's untoward, but we had no time to secure a lady's maid, so it will have to be me that helps you with your buttons and things. It isn't a job I would leave to the crew."

She shivered in anticipation of those elegant fingers slipping off her bonds and undoing the various fastenings of her elaborate garments. "I may survive the scandal, Captain."

"I hope that you do, Lady Duvalier," he said. "I'll return in a short while."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The default name for a male Trevelyan is Maxwell, so I've just gone with that.


	4. Chapter 4

Cassandra visited his quarters every night for a week, slipping up the stairs when she knew she could come unnoticed. She dutifully avoided any appearance of impropriety; their dynamic in any Inquisition discussion, in company or just the two of them, was unchanged. She agreed with him only when she agreed with him, and fought him to a standstill when their opinions differed. He was vastly relieved. He had always depended on her to steer him right when he was going off-course. Cassandra was the heart and soul of the Inquisition and he prayed that never changed. 

In his quarters, it was different. They could be tender with each other in a way the daylight never saw. They could ask things of each other that were impossible in their ordinary interactions. It was if they'd rewritten their history - her initial suspicions, his early inadequacies - and kept only the purest and kindest parts of their relationship. Her demeanor changed and softened when she wore the ropes, though the steel in her came back if they discussed the business of the Inquisition. They were not master and mastered, though she sat bound; each served the other's needs in their own way. She asked. He answered. 

Trevelyan dutifully tied her wrists together night after night. His knots were square and even now, and he hardly had to adjust or smooth the wraps. He had gotten one of the apothecaries to mix up a soothing cream that wasn't really necessary, but he liked that Cassandra let him rub it into her skin after he took the ropes off. He had dragged the sofa closer to the fire and they sat together on it, her feet tucked almost under his thigh, while he read to her from _The Knotty Sailor_. The heat of the fire on his face disguised the way he blushed at some of the later chapters, when Philippe and Madeleine had moved past the expediency of restraints and were exploring more of the experimental areas. When he glanced at Cassandra, she was smiling with her eyes closed. 

There was a ritual in it, the way they moved around each other as he retrieved the wrist-tying rope and she lay down on the sofa. He knelt in front of her like a penitent in front of Andraste and removed her boots so that she would be comfortable. After a few days, he was practiced enough that she could sit, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, watching him as he wove the rope around her firm forearms. The glow of the anchor in his palm made everything gleam green. Her arms were so lean and muscled that the delicacy of the bones of her wrist seemed incongruous. He resisted the urge to caress the little ridges of them with one fingertip, but it was more difficult every day to have her at his mercy and not to confess his longing for her. It wasn't their agreement, he knew. It wasn't what she'd asked for from him, or what she needed. He couldn't endanger the beautiful, fragile rapport they'd built.

"You're getting very good at this," she said on the fourth or fifth evening. 

"I have a excellent subject," he told her, cupping her joined hands in one of his to give her the leverage to lean back into the position she usually adopted: knees bent, back braced against the arm of the sofa. She braced herself against his strength, lifted her feet from the floor to the cushions, and leaned into the corner. He let his hand slip away from hers.

"Obedience is not always in my nature," she said. "But I do not mind submitting to you under these circumstances."

"Says the woman who served the Divine so faithfully she was made the right hand," he quipped. 

"That is different and you know it," she said. "I serve the Maker's will, and so I served his chosen. I find it difficult to submit to my supposed superiors. You could ask Seeker Byron, who trained me when I was young. He would not tell you the tale of a willing pupil."

"Do you feel helpless with me?" he asked. "When I bind you?"

She shook her head. "Not entirely. There are aspects of helplessness, but in the greatest part, I feel comforted. If I am frustrated or feel strange, your being here soothes me. You care for me as Captain Lefort cared for Madeleine."

"I'm not sure the parallel is exact," he murmured.

"Well," she said, evidently reconsidering, "not in entirely the same manner. But the principle is the same. When you bind me, I remember my own strength and cunning. I think of all the ways I could disable you without the use of my hands, if it became necessary."

He cleared his throat. "I appreciate that you haven't used any of those methods."

"They have not become necessary," she said, a twinkle in her eye. "However, if you feel threatened, perhaps you might bind my ankles."

Trevelyan considered it. The principle should be the same; the only technique he knew ought to function the same way for ankles as it did for wrists. "All right," he said, and retrieved the coil of Dagna's rope. He measured off a length and cut it with his dagger. It seemed easiest to sit on the sofa and have her rest her feet on his thigh. She let him guide her feet without complaint. 

"The bight," he murmured, beginning to wrap the rope around her calves, "around this way, under this strand."

"Over that strand, surely," she said, craning her neck to watch. 

"What is it that Bull always says to Dorian?" he asked. "Don't top from the bottom."

"I'm not sure the parallel is exact," she said, repeating his earlier words, and when he looked up, her face was an interesting shade of scarlet. 

"You were right, though," he said, tugging the end and reworking the knot. "You'll know more than I do about this by tomorrow."

"I should let you work," she said penitently. "It is not fair to critique your performance when you are doing me a favor." 

"By all means, correct me," he said. "We're in this together, Cassandra." He finished the knot and tidied the wraps, making sure she was comfortable. "Do you feel more helpless?"

"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "Although I still believe I could disable you if necessary."

"Good," he said, patting her knee. "I believe it too. Especially since you could release yourself at any moment."

"Chapter fourteen?" she said, relaxing into the corner of the sofa. Her feet were still on his thigh. 

"As you wish," he said, although chapter fourteen meant that he needed to drape himself with a blanket to disguise his interest. At least it meant that her feet, still on his lap, were kept warm. She had a dreamy look in her eyes when he released her. He wasn't sure if it was the evocative details contained in chapter fourteen or the new level of restraint they'd reached. He ran his knuckles over her ankles just in case her circulation had been compromised and then rubbed the cream into her wrists. The skin there was softer than ever after multiple days of the salve. 

"It is most kind of you," she said. 

"I could do no less," he told her. "How are you feeling?"

"We're getting closer to conquering my fear of helplessness," she said. "I am glad that we are proceeding so slowly, but I look forward to our next steps." 

"I'll talk to Bull again soon," Trevelyan said. "I know it's not ideal, but _The Knotty Sailor_ isn't much use as a primer. All of the most important details are left to the imagination."

"Not all of them," Cassandra said, smiling to herself. "But I take your meaning. I suppose it is necessary."

They never made specific plans for the next night or the one after that, but she was there, climbing the stairs to his lofty quarters, and he was ready for her. 

After that, there were matters to attend to in the Storm Coast. He took Cassandra with him, and Cole and Vivienne. Vivienne disliked Cole, but as he didn't sleep, she didn't have to share a tent with anyone, which was convenient. 

"I do need my sleep, my dear," Vivienne said as they ate what passed for dinner in the field, which she hadn't complained about much. "I'm absolutely useless without it."

"Dreaming deep," Cole said. "The most elegant fashions, the most civilized dances, and in the middle of it all, _him_."

Vivienne ignored him. "It's so kind of you to bunk together and allow me a little privacy. I'm just such a light sleeper. The slightest thing could wake me. I'm sure at this point you and the Seeker could sleep through the return of Corypheus, you're such seasoned soldiers."

"Not quite through," Cassandra said, her smile a little brittle. "Sleep well, Madame de Fer."

It began to rain not long after Vivienne excused herself. The Inquisition soldiers muttered and retired to their own tents across the camp. Cole vanished, and Trevelyan held the tent flap for Cassandra. They helped each other remove their armor, piling it in a corner. Rain pattered on the waxed canvas roof. The occasional gusty breeze twanged at the supports of their tent.

"Did you bring it?" she asked when they were both liberated from their gear.

"I did," he said, reaching into his tunic and bringing out the flat coils of rope. He'd carried them next to his heart since they'd left Skyhold days ago. It wouldn't have been strange for the Inquisitor to carry rope, of course, but he feared his face would betray how precious this particular rope was to him, and the lengths were impractical for binding anything but Cassandra. "I wasn't sure if I should."

"This is an excellent testing ground," she said. "There is no threat to face in your quarters. Out here, we might be attacked at any moment."

"That doesn't make it sound like a good idea," he said dubiously.

She shrugged. "If there is a crisis, you can say the word and I will be freed. I doubt it will cost us much time. I will never conquer my fear if I am never truly helpless."

"I trust your strength," he said, "and your instincts. All right. Hold out your hands." She complied with a charming eagerness and he bound her wrists and ankles. They sat facing each other across the width of the tent. 

"How do you feel?" he asked. 

"I am contemplating my options," she said. "I doubt that I could stand without assistance, but I could hit something very hard with my two hands together, or I could kick with great impact. And I know that you would help me, if I needed to stand."

"Of course I would," he said. 

"It is too much to hope you brought the book," she said, sounding resigned, and he reached into his pack. He'd felt silly putting it into his pack, expecting her to be all business outside the walls of Skyhold, but he was glad he'd added it to the things he carried. 

"Chapter nineteen," he began, and she smiled. 

"Wait," she said, "I would like to lie down." 

"But you need help," he said, finishing her unspoken request, and she smiled again.

"I do," she said. "I cannot do it on my own without risking toppling over."

He slipped an arm behind her shoulders, cradling her head, and helped her lie down. She seemed to take a genuine pleasure in her inability to do these things herself. He supposed it was novel for her in a way, given her strength and independence. He supported her upper body, easing her down to the bedroll. When she was comfortable, he read to her, only one chapter. The tent took on some of the cozy atmosphere they'd managed to create in his quarters, but he was still aware that the wild night surrounded them, kept out only by relatively flimsy fabric. There were bears on the Storm Coast as well as bandits, not to mention a giant out there somewhere, and who knew if the dragon had cached her eggs. Cassandra seemed perfectly content, lying on her side with her head pillowed on her bound hands, but he was uneasy on her behalf.

"I think that's enough for tonight," he said. 

"I suppose it will have to be," she said, sounding regretful. 

"Filomena," he whispered, and the ropes fell away from her instantly.

"I prefer when you untie me yourself," she said. "It feels more...complete."

"At least we know it works," he said, winding the cords back up into their coils and tucking them under his pillow. 

"That is true," she said, lying on her side to face him as she slid into her bedroll. "Thank you for indulging me, Max. I could see that it worried you, and I appreciate your faith in me."

"You've never called me that out here before," he said, warmth blooming in his chest. She reached for his hand and clasped it in hers. He wondered how long it had been, before they began all of this, since she'd touched someone for comfort instead of anger. Too long, probably. He liked it when she reached out for him. It seemed easy for her, which had surprised him slightly at first, but her heart was the greatest part of her. He ought to have known that by now.

"We were only the Inquisitor and the Seeker before," she said. "Now, from time to time, we are something else. I do not mind stealing back a few moments from the Inquisition when they can spare them."

"We've earned them," he said, yawning. 

"Between demons and darkspawn and Madame de Fer's complaints, I would say we have," she said. She let go of his hand. "Good night, my friend."

"Good night, Cassandra," he said. 

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Four**

Philippe tried to quiet the hunger within him as he strode down the corridor to his cabin. He had left Lady Duvalier there, bound only at the wrists, trusting that she would not make her escape. The cook would be delivering dinner soon, but his appetite had nothing to do with food and everything to do with Madeleine Duvalier. Her gratitude for a bath and fresh clothing had been charming enough to stir his desire, but the act of undressing her had only heightened his excitement. It was as if the rope he'd harnessed her with had become the outermost layer of her garments. 

The first time he had bound her, she had been drugged, limp in his hands. It had been like tying up a sack of flour, or a strangely realistic doll. He hadn't felt even the slightest stirrings as he'd hitched the cords between her shapely breasts or around the swell of her hips. Now she watched him, blue eyes as enigmatic as the sea, her lips slightly parted, and all his best intentions gave way. 

He usually left her wrists bound as he undid the innumerable fastenings of her garments: the tiny buttons down the back of her dress, the ties of the corsets underneath. The act of leaving her in déshabille as he untied the last rope was almost more delicious than undressing her all the way would have been. He always waited as she splashed in the bath. She needed almost as much help dressing as she had undressing, and it would have been improper to entrust her to any of the rough men who served him. He wished she had been wearing boots instead of slippers the night he'd stolen her away. He could imagine wrapping his fingers around the shapely muscle of her calf, usually hidden by the layers of her skirts, as his other hand applied firm, gentle, even pressure until the boot suddenly slipped off. 

He needed to get a hold of himself. 

Leaving her nearly unrestrained in his cabin had been an exercise in trust. At the same time, part of him hoped she was rummaging through his things. He imagined her pale hands feeling through the folds of his clothes in the chest or stroking the soft silk of his blankets. He'd taken his pistols and daggers, doubting she would threaten him with a fork.

He didn't knock before he entered the cabin, prepared to catch her in the act of whatever she might be doing. He didn't expect her to look up, eyes blazing, and brandish a piece of paper at him.

"What," she said in a low dangerous voice that thrilled in his veins, "is this?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan learns a new trick. Cassandra likes it very much.

It didn't take more than a few days to clear up the situation in the Storm Coast. On the way back to Skyhold, there were enough inns that they didn't have to share a room. Trevelyan was almost used to the overawed looks they got when they stopped in such places. He didn't mind being asked to touch the anchor to the kegs of beer or the landlord's child's forehead. It might not have been Andraste's blessing, but it gave people hope, and sometimes that was blessing enough. The book stayed in his bag; the ropes stayed tucked into his tunic. They got back late to Skyhold, making their weary way up the mountain in the dimming twilight, and Trevelyan was alone in his quarters all evening. He missed her. He tried not to.

The next day, he went back to Herald's Rest. Bull smirked when he saw him. "Back again, boss?"

Trevelyan held up a bottle. "At least I brought you something wicked in return."

"Best job we ever took," Bull said, accepting the bottle and leading the way to his room. "So. You're ready to take it to the next level? Everything going well?"

"As far as I can tell," Trevelyan said. "I try not to leave the ropes on too long. I massage her wrists afterward."

"Classy," Bull said approvingly. "What happens after the scene is just as important. That gets more true as things get more intense. Most people can handle having their wrists bound for a few minutes, even behind their backs. Shit gets real when you can't move your arms at all, or your ankle is pinned to your thigh."

Trevelylan tried to picture that, and Bull chuckled. His ignorance had to be written all over his face if Bull could read him so easily. 

"Like this," Bull said, and pulled out a book full of such incredibly detailed illustrations that Trevelyan swore in admiration.

"Maker's breath," he said. "Bodies can do this?" 

"Bodies can do a whole lot," Bull said with satisfaction. "Fucking beautiful, isn't it?"

"I am such an amateur," Trevelyan said, half amazed and half despairing. He flipped through the pages. 

"Everyone starts somewhere," Bull told him. "I think your next step is to bind her arms."

Trevelyan started. "Her?"

"You said earlier you massaged _her_ wrists," Bull said patiently. "We don't have to do this if you're going to get all paranoid. I'm not playing any kind of guessing game. I don't really care who you're fucking, or not fucking, or whatever it is you like to do in your free time. My money's on Leliana personally, just because I like the thought of her getting a taste of what she gives to other people. A little restraint. A little interrogation. Maybe a little pain." He sighed happily. "May whoever created redheads have their dicks sucked for a thousand years." He picked up a rope. "Ready?"

"Teach me," Trevelyan said. Bull grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, pinning his arms behind his back.

"This is an option," he said close to Trevelyan's ear, "in case whoever you're tying up likes being pushed around a little." He whipped the rope around Trevelyan's wrists. "You should probably ask first, but I figured you'd be all right."

"I'll remember that," Trevelyan said. His head was reeling. Bull had overpowered him so fast and so completely. He wanted to do what Bull told him, to be overmastered again. It was overwhelming and soothing to be under Bull's control, no longer responsible for anything but doing what he was told. He wondered if Cassandra felt that way when he bound her. He could feel Bull working quickly behind him, wrapping the rope around his arms or itself, spiraling up past his elbows. He dutifully moved as Bull nudged at him, making room for the rope to pass through or for Bull's hands to reach down between the rope and his back.

"There," Bull said smugly. "Take a look."

He looked over his shoulder into the mirror. Bull held the loose end taut above Trevelyan's head. His arms were bound with a neat ladder of rope. He was well and truly restrained from shoulders to wrists. He couldn't even move to push against the knots. Cassandra would like it, he thought. Without the use of his arms, he felt unsteady and a little defenseless. It might be closer to the helplessness she was looking for. 

"Nice work," he said.

Bull untied him and turned him again. "I think it'll be easier if you can watch this time," he said. "First, I tie your wrists together the same way I always do. I bring the rope up and wrap it around your arms below the elbow. Don't put direct pressure on joints. Save that for the battlefield." He kept wrapping. "It's a similar technique to the other, but you don't actually tie a knot yet. You just wrap so that everything's held up, and then do it again above the elbow."

"How does it not just slide down?" Trevelyan asked. 

"It's better if you can tie their arms behind their back," Bull told him. "Especially if you're tying up someone with tits. Puts everything on full view." He stopped to consider. "Next time we strip Cullen in a game of Wicked Grace, I'll have to remember to make this part of the wager. Varric's not stupid enough to bet against me, and everything's already on display there, but I think Cullen would make a fine display piece." He shook his head. "Anyway, you can make a chest harness. Go around the tits or under them, depending. Maybe we should tie up one of Cassandra's dummies for practice."

"I'm sure that would go over well," Trevelyan said, swallowing hard. "She'd love it. She wouldn't kill us at all, not even a little bit."

"I'll show you on this pillow then," Bull said. "It won't be easy, but at least you can see the basic theory." He paused. "And you can borrow the book if you really need to, although I'll need at least a cask of booze for that kind of favor."

They practiced until Trevelyan could at least approximate the twists and knots that Bull described to him, between Bull's patient instructions and the level of detail in the illustrations in the book. 

"Not quite tight enough," Bull said, "but with shoulders like these, it's hard to get my arms back. I think you're catching on. Let me loose and we'll have some lunch, and then I'll show you leg ties just in case. That ought to keep you busy for a few weeks."

Trevelyan drank considerably more than usual at lunch. Bull patted him on the back, much more gently than he might have expected.

"It's a lot, boss," Bull said. "You don't think it will be, but it's a lot."

"I didn't think it would be emotional for me," Trevelyan said. 

Bull nodded. "It is when you do it right."

Leg ties were easier, in a way. Trevelyan was flexible enough that he could generally see what Bull was doing, and it was simple enough to model on arms. He slipped quickly back into the same dreamy emotional state, even when he was the one tying the knots. When he could do it all to Bull's satisfaction, Bull tied both his legs and bound Trevelyan's arms in front of his chest. It took a while. Trevelyan lay prone on Bull's bed, surrounded by that same scent of sweat and cinnamon, feeling like his life and possibly his balls were in Bull's hands. His ankles were bound tight to his thighs; the tension made his knees splay apart. The way his arms were restrained squeezed the muscles of his chest in a way he could tell would look incredible on Cassandra. He had nowhere to go. He was at Bull's mercy. 

"You need to know what it feels like," Bull told him, smoothing and adjusting the ropes. "There's a lot of touching. There's a lot of pressure. It can bring up a lot of emotions." 

"It feels incredibly fucking vulnerable," Trevelyan said. 

"Yeah," Bull said. "Just lie there and feel it for a minute. I remember what it was like that first time. I was lucky that my partner knew what they were doing. I had no fucking idea what I wanted out of the experience."

"I don't know what I want," Trevelyan said. "I just want what she wants."

"Sometimes that's enough," Bull said. 

"Meaning sometimes it's not," Trevelyan said. 

"That's up to you," Bull told him. He rubbed Trevelyan's knee. "Too tight?"

"No, I'm fine," Trevelyan said. 

"Let me know if anything starts to hurt," Bull told him. "Don't leave her like this for very long, especially the first time. It's best if you can limber up a little first." He grinned. "Whatever that means to you." 

"Calisthenics," Trevelyan said, staring at the ceiling. "Literally." 

"Tragic," Bull said.

Trevelyan couldn't shrug very well, but he did his best to look noncommittal. 

"Here's another little bit of fun," Bull said. He reached into a drawer and brought out something small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Trevelyan craned his neck and Bull held out an old spur he'd cleaned and sharpened. 

"You game?" he asked.

Trevelyan shivered. "I'll try it." 

Bull ran the wheel of the spur from Trevelyan's knee down his thigh, close to his groin. The prickle of pain sparked up Trevelyan's spine. He whistled through his teeth, not sure if he loved it or hated it. It was almost too much, but he wanted more of it. Bull did it again, and this time Trevelyan groaned. 

"That's the stuff," Bull said with satisfaction. "I've got the other half of the pair, if you want it."

"Yes," Trevelyan said. Cassandra might not enjoy it, but maybe she'd enjoy using it on him. He'd never considered himself a connoisseur of pain, but recreational pain was another thing entirely. It was sensual, almost sexual all by itself. Andraste, how it might feel to lose himself in it.

Bull untied him after a quarter-hour or so and rubbed his legs and arms briskly, like he was rubbing down a horse. "Got to make sure the circulation's going. Being tied up does funny things to your body." He helped Trevelyan sit up and handed him the bottle Trevelyan had brought. "We'll see if that's as wicked as you say."

Trevelyan took a mouthful and managed to swallow it, though it took some effort. He coughed and Bull grinned.

"That sounds right."

"I don't know how to thank you," Trevelyan said, handing the bottle back.

"Go forth," Bull said, gesturing expansively, "spread the good word. That's all the thanks I need."

"Spread the Qun?" Trevelyan asked.

"Fuck no," Bull said. "The gospel of bondage. A little pleasure in a world that only seems to want to fuck you in ways that aren't mutually enjoyable." 

"Is that the message the Inquisition shows up with?" Trevelyan asked, amused.

"I hope so," Bull said. "You're the one who decides that, boss."

"I think I'll be a better leader knowing what it feels like to have to take orders," Trevelyan said. "That's your doing." 

"We all have our part to play," Bull said. "Mine just happens to be sex education and showing people the ropes." 

Trevelyan laughed. "How long have you been waiting to say that?"

"Too long," Bull said, and took a swig from the bottle. "Go knock her socks off. I've got some energy to work off myself."

"Should I let Dorian know?" Trevelyan asked.

"I knew I liked working for you," Bull said, toasting him. 

Trevelyan wrapped the book and the spur in a spare piece of cloth and carried the bundle back to his quarters. He couldn't stop imagining Cassandra, her arms tied behind her back, shivering at his touch. He was so distracted that he ran face-first into the door of his quarters, which had opened partway when he pushed it, and then stopped. He staggered back and the door opened fully. Cassandra stood in front of him.

"I am sorry," she said. "I heard someone coming and I didn't know if it was you. I didn't want to be found here."

"There is a loft," he said, running his hand over his face. Nothing seemed to be cut or broken. She reached out to brush his hair off his forehead.  
"I think you're all right," she said tentatively.

"I think so too," he said, wincing. His face hurt, but it seemed temporary. "Did you need something?"

"I did not want you to think I was angry," she said. "I fell asleep."

"You don't have to explain yourself," he told her. "We don't have any kind of set arrangement. I was disappointed, but I didn't think you were angry."

"I told Josephine that you were taking a long ride," she said. "She wanted you to meet with the minister of something or other. You'll still have to have dinner with him, of course, but it buys you a little time."

"And you?" he asked. "Have you got a calendar full of appointments?"

She scoffed. "I have successfully convinced her that no one wants to meet with me."

"Then may I spend my time on you?" he asked, extending a hand. "I have some things to show you. Josephine couldn't find me because I spent most of the day with Bull."

"Ah," she said. "That explains the gleam in your eye, I suppose."

"It might," he said. "Stand by the bed."

"You're not tying me to the bed," she said. "Besides, there aren't even any convenient supports. This wing or whatever it's intended to be is ridiculous."

"I'm not tying you to the bed," he said, setting his package on the desk and exchanging it for the longer length of rope. He stepped up to where she was waiting near the bed, her arms crossed. "I want you to be able to brace yourself on something if you lose your balance. Do you trust me?"

"I trust you," she said, uncrossing her arms and squaring her body to his, open and unguarded. 

"Then face away," he said. "This is what's next. I'm going to have to touch you."

"I did not imagine you would restrain me with the power of your mind," she said dryly. 

"It seems only fair to remind you," he said. "Are you ready?"

"I am ready," she said. "You are wasting time."

"All right," he said. He put his hands on her shoulders and smoothed his palms down the outsides of her arms, gently pushing her hands together so that her shoulders pulled together and her back arched. He tried not to think about her breasts. "I'm tying your wrists," he said, easing the rope around her. "The same way we always start, but with your hands behind your back, you should feel more restricted."

"I do already," she said, a little hitch in her voice. 

"You know you can always tell me to stop," he reminded her. "You know how to untie yourself instantly if you're uncomfortable."

"I know," she said. "Go on." There was a throatiness to her speech that encouraged him.

"I bring the rope up your arms," he said, narrating to the back of her neck. "I bind them here, below the elbow, and here, above the elbow. I tie a hitch to keep it all from unraveling." She was breathing faster. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," she said.

"We can stop here," he told her. "This arrangement is difficult because it will slip without tension. I can hold this end taut until you're ready to be released. Or I can tie a harness of sorts across your chest to hold up the bindings on your arms."

"I think the harness," she said. 

"I'll have to touch you," he told her. "I won't take liberties, but there's no way to make this work otherwise."

"Then do what you must," she told him. She was swaying just a little on her feet, rocking back and forth so that her body alternately brushed against the flared side of the bed and his chest. He turned her gently so that he could wrap the cords up and over her shoulders, around and between her breasts, and loop them to the back again where he could tie the ends off in the web he'd created. He had to linger between her breasts, wrapping the rope around itself to make the harness sturdier; he knew only enough to do what he'd been taught, and not enough to improvise. He imagined Bull had been well pleased with himself. This harness was intricate and intimate. Trevelyan worked without meeting her eyes. He did his best not to touch her breasts, but he couldn't keep from grazing them occasionally. He pretended to ignore the sharp intake of her breath, but it went right through him.

"Finished," he said as he brought the last end around under her arm and laced it through the straps he'd tied. For the first time since he'd begun, he met her gaze. Her eyes were wide. Her face was flushed. Her chest heaved a little under the crisscross of rope. 

"Does it hurt?" he asked. "You need to tell me if it hurts. Don't be stoic."

"It does not hurt," she said. 

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I am perfectly all right," she said. "I cannot move at all." She sounded pleased. "I am not sure I even wish to try to walk." 

"You could kneel on the bed," he offered.

"No, I wish to stand," she said. "But you might sit on the bed, and hold my belt. I feel strange."

"Strange how?" he asked, sitting on the bed and bracketing her legs with his knees. He took one of the short pieces of rope from his tunic and threaded it quickly through her belt a few times, wrapping the ends around his fists. He didn't think he could bear to slide his fingers between the leather and the fabric of her tunic. He would feel the warmth of her skin and the tension in her body. It was all he could do to keep from touching her. The rope had to be the only link between them.

She looked down at him, smiling. "This is wonderful."

"Is it?" he asked. 

"Oh, _yes_ ," she said. "Before I could feel that I was not helpless. There was always some way to make use of myself. But now, I cannot think of any way. If an enemy were to come along right now, I would depend entirely on you until I was set free."

"Good," he said, since that seemed to be the answer she wanted. Her breasts really were magnificent from this angle, pushed forward by the arch of her back and framed by the rope. Andraste, she was beautiful like this. Contentment radiated from her until she nearly glowed. He had enjoyed Bull's restraints, but not the way Cassandra did. She was alight, a beacon calling out to him. Was it a blessing or a curse to love and desire her equally, when he could hope for reciprocation of neither emotion? 

"My shoulders are beginning to ache," she said after a few minutes. "Clearly this will be something we work up to." 

"Bull said it helps if you stretch," Trevelyan offered. "Do you want to say the word?"

"I want you to release me," she said. She was swaying more now, drifting away from him until her belt cut into her waist and the rope stood taut between them. The only way to keep her close enough to untie the knots was to slip an arm around her waist and hold her braced against the bed as his other hand picked apart the knots and slipped the rope from its twists and hitches. It was better this way, and worse. Better because the tension eased gradually on her shoulders, meaning she wouldn't injure herself if the joints sprang back into place too fast. Worse because he could feel her thighs quivering against his knees and his face was almost against her stomach. He longed to press his cheek against her, to lean into her the way she rested against him. Instead he turned her gently in the circle of his arm and loosened the restraints that bound her to him, until the careful wraps slipped down her arms and he could free her wrists. He guided her down to sit on the edge of the bed beside him, rubbing one hand across her shoulders. 

"No creams?" she teased.

"I can't rub salve into your entire back and both arms," he said.

"And I thought you had prepared for this," she said.

"I tried," he told her, knowing nothing could have prepared him for this. "It would probably just stain your tunic, and you'd have to change before dinner, and Josephine would make you wear that velvet thing you hate."

She shrugged. "You have a point. Still, there are marks on my wrists. They should probably be gone before we go to dinner. Leliana has sharp eyes."

"At your service, my lady," he said, getting up with an ironic little bow. He rubbed the salve into her wrists until all the marks were gone. 

"I enjoyed that very much," she said as he ran his thumb across the inside of her wrist one last time. He looked up. That light was still in her eyes. He wouldn't have been surprised to wake up marked by that light. It was more powerful than whatever magic Corypheus had wrought.

"I'm glad," he said. "It makes me happy to be able to do this for you."

"Thank you," she said. "I will be more use to you if I am not afraid."

"All I want is for you to feel safe," he said. He released her hands.

"I do," she said, "and that is remarkable in a world such as this."

They looked at each other for a long moment. 

"Shall we go to dinner before Josephine comes looking for us?" she asked. "I would not have her imagining our reasons for being late, or scolding us afterward."

"Do we need an excuse to go down together?" he asked.

"Oh, probably." She shrugged. "There is always some new campaign to plan." 

"I'll bring a prop just in case," he said, and went to the bookshelf. There was a book of Nevarran battle strategy that seemed appropriate. "We were discussing a history you loaned to me?"

"Perfect," she said, taking the book. "Are you ready for a stunning display of diplomacy, Inquisitor?"

"Lead on, Seeker," he said, and they went down to keep their appointment with the people who kept the world turning.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Five**

Madeline fumed in her netted bed. He had brought her back after dinner and tied her in as if nothing had changed. How dare her father commission Captain Lefort to kidnap her? How dare Captain Lefort follow through on that plan? How dare the Montchevals take out a contract on her life? The entire situation was infuriating.

If she could only have gotten out of her bed, she would have flung herself overboard and swum back to Antiva to give Lord Duvalier and the entire Montcheval family a piece of her mind. But Lefort had kept her hands and her ankles tied all through dinner, necessitating her to eat ungracefully or be fed by him. She had chosen the latter, silently assuring him with her eyes that she was the one in control. When he had brought her back, he hadn't removed the other restraints until he had already secured the net, reminding her that there were individual ties she couldn't reach. He'd kept her away from the silverware at dinner: no knife concealed between her bodice and corset.

There had to be a way that she could put herself back in control of her future. Madeline tried to toss and turn, but there wasn't enough slack in the ropes of the net. She could only shimmy her shoulders and her hips, pushing herself onto her side with great effort.

Philippe Lefort would rue the day he had stolen her. She could promise that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This is the arm binding](https://www.ropeconnections.com/how-to-tie-an-armbinder/#more-883) I'm using as inspiration for this and [this is the leg tie](https://www.ropeconnections.com/about-the-best-leg-tie-around/).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra and Trevelyan finish The Knotty Sailor and start a new book.

Trevelyan still found it all hard to believe. He and Cassandra had found a balance somehow: in front of the others, everything was as it had always been. In his quarters, it was all new, unexplored territory they scouted together. His luck was impossible. As Varric had reminded him, his luck had already been impossible. Trevelyan waited for something to break, but so far, nothing had.

He could half-remember blundering through the blizzard after Haven. Losing what he had with Cassandra would be worse. He had never seen her so gentle, so eager. In their early encounters, he had thought he had never met a person as steely as the Seeker. Now he saw the softness in her and wondered who else had known this Cassandra, who let herself be cared for. 

He wanted her more every day. He liked binding her arms behind her back because she couldn't see his face that way. He was certain he had given himself away more than once, gazing at her with too much tenderness or in a moment of naked longing. It had been too intimate to support her while she stood. Instead, he would turn a chair around and let her sit the wrong way in it. He folded a blanket over the top of it so she could lean against the chair as he guided her shoulders back and threaded the cords around her. She closed her eyes and rested her cheek on the back of the chair, a tiny secretive smile curving her lips. He sat on the sofa by himself and read to her for five minutes one night, ten the next, and then fifteen, and so on as her body adjusted to the position the ropes demanded. 

He wondered if she could hear the roughness in his voice as he read the more scandalous chapters. He wondered if she knew he wasn't thinking of Philippe Lefort or Madeline Duvalier, even as he read about Madeleine's long loose curls or Philippe's elegant hands. The situations he imagined were much different: a woman with short straight hair cropped closer to her head, a man with the scarred and callused hands of a rogue. 

There was a part of him that was surprised she wanted him to read the novel to her, and part of him that remembered she was a soldier, despite her manners. There had been rougher tales than this in the barracks, and truer ones. Did she have tales to tell? 

"'Philippe took Madeleine in his arms and kissed her deeply," he read, "his lips expressing everything he could never say. _I am bound to you_ , said the kiss, _and only to you, forever_.'" He closed the book. "It never seems like that should be the end."

"It is the perfect ending," Cassandra said dreamily from her chair. She opened her eyes and looked at him. "They have found a way to be together despite all the things that might have kept them apart. He gives her what she might never have had."

"And they lived happily ever after?" he asked.

"Why not?" she said. 

He didn't answer. Why not indeed, and yet. He didn't need to push her. And yet. 

"Would she have known what she needed if he hadn't come along?" he asked Cassandra. 

"Many of us do not know what we need until the circumstances align," Cassandra said. "If it is the Maker's will, it will happen."

"Did the Maker bring you to me, or me to you?" he asked.

"He brought us together," she said. 

"Twisted around each other like rope," he muttered.

"Much like rope, we are stronger together," she said. "I am ready to be untied."

He unwound her, still careful not to touch her more than necessary. He coiled the rope and hung it on the back of the chair as she stretched. They sat on the sofa together as he rubbed her arms. 

"Are you angry with me?" she asked, her gaze level. 

"No," he said. "I'm not angry with you."

"What is the matter?" she asked. "You are upset."

He sighed and passed his palms down her arms one last time. "It's nothing. Something Varric said once."

"Naturally," Cassandra said. "Varric often says things that are upsetting."

"It doesn't matter," Trevelyan told her. "He didn't intend it to affect me that way."

"Our actions have consequences beyond our intents," Cassandra said. "A lesson that I learn frequently. According to Josephine, a lesson I have not learned as well as she would like. I think it is more appropriate to say that she has not yet learned not to send me to talk to preening nobles who think that a sword's worth is in how brightly it shines."

"You are a princess," he said.

"I am not the sort of princess Josephine is accustomed to," she said dryly. "What did Varric tell you?"

"It doesn't matter," he said. "Maybe I'm upset that I can't communicate paragraphs without speaking like Philippe Lefort."

Cassandra smirked. "I am certain you are well-equipped to express yourself wordlessly," she said. "I have always found your blade to be quite eloquent."

He stared at her in disbelief and she colored. 

"Forgive me," she said, "it is possible my words had meaning beyond their intent."

"I didn't know you had it in you, Seeker," he said, grinning at her.

"It may be buried deep, but now and again, someone unearths it," she told him. 

"I'll keep digging," he said, and she raised an eyebrow.

"I have every faith that you will," she said. 

"Salve," he told her, and she rolled up her sleeves to reveal her wrists. He rubbed them one at a time, kneading into her skin with his thumbs as she watched him. She looked so relaxed he almost thought she might doze off. He ought to rouse her. Cassandra leaving his quarters at odd hours of the evening might be explained. Cassandra leaving his quarters in the morning might not be so easily reasoned away. The sofa was too short anyway. He would have to carry her to the bed, and despite all the nights they had spent in equally close proximity, it wouldn't feel the same as having her in his bed. 

She yawned, covering her mouth with one hand. "I must sleep," she said. "Good night, Inquisitor."

"Good night," he told her.

It took him a long time to fall asleep, and when he finally drifted off, it was into dreams of Cassandra swooning in his arms. He woke, sighed, and tried to sleep again. This time he was swooning in Cassandra's arms, and her lips spoke volumes.

It wasn't exactly the most restful night he'd ever had. 

The Council met the next day on Cullen's urgent request: corpses were menacing the soldiers in the Fallow Mire again and matters required the Inquisitor's attention. There was a rift. There was always a rift. He prepared to ride out. Blackwall would ride with him, and Sera, and Vivienne. It wasn't the best combination of personalities, but he needed all their strengths, and Sera had Jenny business somewhere along the way. 

There seemed to be so much more to pack than there had been in the early days. He bundled shirts and undergarments into his pack. At least they had established camps all along the way now. That was a luxury that the early days had lacked. They had had to carry tents, and before Dennett had brought them mounts, the tents had been the sort of flimsy affair each person could carry. Now some of the waypoints had cabins of sorts, permanent monuments to the Inquisition's influence. 

He turned from the dresser to add another pair of stockings to his bag - he hated wet feet, and they were inevitable in the Fallow Mire - and Cassandra was there.

"I know there isn't time," she said. "But it felt stranger not to come."

"Are you going to read to me while I try to stuff half my possessions into this bag?" he asked. 

Her mouth curved in a half-smile. "I do not have your fortitude, Max. I could not say those things aloud."

He made a secret silent vow to change that. "You could tell me a story of the Hero of Orlais."

She made an impatient noise. "Half-truths and exaggerations. I've told you what really happened."

"You could give me ideas for what we ought to do next," he said. "The Inquisition, I mean. I know what you and I are doing next."

"How intriguing," she said, sitting on the chair he'd bound her on the night before and crossing one leg over the other. She leaned to one side, almost lounging. She was comfortable in his quarters now and he relished that fact. "Something else from Bull's bag of tricks?"

"Of course," he said. "And some reading material for you while I'm gone. Not your usual fare, but quite...illuminating." He went to the desk and retrieved Bull's book, still in its wrappings. Her eyes widened when she saw it.

"How fascinating," she said, bending her dark head over it, her fingertips resting on her lower lip. "A universe of possibilities."

"Creativity I never anticipated to be sure," Trevelyan said. On some impulse, he cut a length that would fit comfortably around her wrist and separated the strands, braiding them back together into a flat cord. She was turning the pages of the book and took little notice of him at first. He stood by the bed and watched her peruse the pages, murmuring to herself.

"This is marvelous," she said after a moment, looking up at him. He held the cord out to her. "What is this?"

"A token of sorts, I suppose," he said. "I don't know when I'll be back." He reached for her hand and she let him take it and tie the cord around her wrist, knotting it firmly. Out of habit, he slid his finger underneath it so that the cord lay flat and even. 

She gazed at it a moment and then pushed the cord under her sleeve. "A fitting reminder."

"We'll try the other things when I return," he said. "If you want. You can consider what seems appropriate."

"Yes," she said cheerfully, "there are many situations in this book that seem inappropriate at best." She looked up at him. "Thank you for all of this."

"It's my pleasure," he said. 

"You sound like the Iron Bull," she said with a smile. "I do hope you get something out of this."

"I told you," he said. "I get a fearless defender. A woman who has conquered even herself. Your happiness is my happiness." 

_I am bound to you_ , said the rope around her wrist. He wondered if she could hear it. 

"It will be strange without you," she said. 

"I'm sure you'll have plenty to occupy you," he said. "Troops to train. Dummies to slash. Books to read."

"This one will take some time," she said, turning the page. "My goodness."

He leaned over to glance at what she was seeing. "Ah. Yes." 

"People do this?" she asked, and he couldn't tell whether she was horrified or aroused. Maybe both.

"We don't have to," he assured her. "Ah, especially not that one. I don't think you're equipped for it."

"No," she agreed, "and my hands are not deft enough to inflict that on anyone else."

"It just takes practice," he teased her. 

"As you say," she said, "I do not have the equipment, and the only people who might be likely to provide a surrogate would be Sera or Dorian, neither of whom would ever let me forget it. I will pass." She paused at an illustration of an elaborate harness that crisscrossed down a woman's breasts and over her hips. "This might be acceptable."

"If the Inquisition doesn't work out, I'll be prepared for a number of new careers," Trevelyan joked. 

"I would hire your services exclusively," Cassandra declared. 

"Would you?" he asked, cocking his head as he looked at her. "Would I be sworn to you?"

"I would not make you bend your knee," she said, "but yes."

"How would you explain me?" he teased. His heart was thumping.

"I would engage you as my personal masseuse," Cassandra said. 

He nodded, too many thoughts reeling through his mind. "Positively decadent. An appointment worthy of the court of Val Royeaux." 

"I require a great deal of liniment," she said, her nose in the air as she affected a haughty attitude. "Particularly after battle."

"You're always battling," he said.

"Exactly," she said. "I will always be in need of liniment."

"No one will believe that's not a euphemism," he pointed out. 

She shrugged. "Let them think what they may. I have been told that the only thing that matters is my own happiness."

She smiled warmly at him. He could feel the hollowness of the grin he offered her in return. He went to look for another pair of stockings. It was all too much sometimes. As her leader and her friend, he was glad she had a chance to let down her guard with someone. It was healthy for her. People needed people, as Sera liked to remind him. As someone devoted to her, he was thrilled and frustrated that the someone she had chosen was him. He couldn't endanger these moments. He cherished them. But Andraste's light, sometimes the ache in him for something more between them was enough to crack his ribs.

Behind him, she closed the book. Surely she could feel the change in the energy between them. He wondered how she explained it to herself. Perhaps he could blame his mood on the moon, or on the prospect of weeks of travel punctuated with clashes with hordes of undead. "I will let you prepare yourself," she said. "Maker guard and guide you, Max."

"And you," he said, and then she was gone. He shoved the last pair of stockings into his bag and went out to the balcony to let the breeze blow through him. 

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Six**

Lady Duvalier had slipped her bonds, Philippe realized, as he woke from a sound sleep to the weight of her on his chest.

"Captain," she said, a dangerous edge in her voice. 

"Lady Duvalier," he said smoothly. "What a pleasant surprise."

"For one of us," she said. "You'll be taking me back to Antiva now."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," he told her. 

He felt cold metal at his throat.

"I'm afraid you can," she said. 

He shoved up, catching her off guard, and captured both hands behind her back. "I'm afraid I can't, Lady Duvalier. As you well know, there is a contract on your life. Being rather interested in your continued existence for financial as well as personal reasons, I won't be taking you back to Antiva." He pulled the belt from his trousers, hung on a nearby peg, and bound her hands. She was breathing hard, her hair cascading over her shoulders and covering her face. He brushed it gently away. 

"Financial reasons I understand," she said in a vicious tone, "but you have no personal interest in my life."

"Ah, but I do," he said. "You're much too pretty when you're all tied up, you see. I find myself reluctant to hand you off to anyone who might not understand your potential." He lifted her chin so that she was looking into his eyes. "I have so much more to show you. You have so much more to learn."

"What could you possibly teach me?" she spat.

"The virtue of submission," he said, and from the way her eyes widened, he knew she was his.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan comes home to a surprising new request.

A month of mud, of days so rainy they seemed like nights. A month of cold feet and walking corpses. The Fallow Mire stank, the usual odor of the marsh overlaid with the sweet clammy smell of death. He was never dry or warm all the way through. The food always seemed to be cold, wet, charred, or some combination of the three. Vivienne kept herself comfortable with fire spells, but complained anyway. Trevelyan would rather have been freezing in Emprise du Lion or fighting off wolves in Crestwood. At least in Crestwood, it sometimes stopped raining. They'd even had to leave the horses at the edge of the swamp so they wouldn't mire themselves and flounder until they broke a leg. Dennett would never have forgiven him for that. The only bright spot was that there were enough undead to keep them all occupied, so he didn't have time to mind the rain. He fell into his tent every night after dinner and didn't miss Cassandra or even care that Blackwall snored. 

It felt like another month to get back to Skyhold once they'd secured all of the Fallow Mire they cared to hold and ensured their forces would be able to keep them. Sera delayed them to do her favor for some Jennies. Trevelyan was grateful that the tavern they stayed at had the ability to produce a hot bath and a few rough towels. He soaked in the soapy water until he was warm and had scrubbed away all of the clinging mud of the marsh, knowing that he'd be coated with dust the next day on the road. It made a difference, even so. Then there was a misunderstanding about the Grey Wardens that only Blackwall seemed to be able to resolve, despite his dubious status, and a hundred other little delays. The people asked and he could not find it in himself to refuse. He retrieved jewelry and trinkets. He identified travelers who had lost their way. He gathered herbs for the healers. There was no straight road home. 

At last they staggered into Skyhold, leading their weary horses. Trevelyan went straight to his quarters. The War Council could wait. He washed off as best he could with a bucket of hot water and pulled on a nightshirt. He groaned with pleasure and relief as he got into bed. Someone had washed his blankets; they smelled fresh and clean, and his mattress and pillows were so soft after the thin cushion of his bedroll and the lumpy beds in the various taverns. 

His arm brushed something and he found Bull's book tucked neatly under the other pillow. It looked like there were some pages marked with bits of ribbon, and the edge of a paper stuck out beyond the cover. He slipped it out from between the pages. It was unsigned, but he recognized Cassandra's half-graceful scrawl. The hand of a warrior who had been forced to learn to write like a princess - there was still an elegance to her letters, despite all the artifice she had abandoned.

 _I missed you_ , it said. _For this and other reasons. Welcome home._

It was as close as he'd ever get to a love letter, he thought, already falling asleep with the note clutched in his fist.

There were a thousand things to do around Skyhold the next few days. His inner circle had done the best they could in his absence, but he knew by now how many things needed the Inquisitor's approval, and nobody would take "The Inquisitor's up to his balls in swamp water trying to put corpses back where they belong" for an answer. He glimpsed Cassandra in the yard and saw her at meals, but she didn't come to his quarters at night. He tried not to think anything of it. He was exhausted anyway, too tired to give her the attention she deserved. 

He'd tucked her note in his pillowcase. It crackled gently as he moved his head. Bull's book had been put away, but he'd taken a few minutes to note the pages she'd marked. There was the harness that encompassed the torso and one just for the hips, and something that would involve tying her to the bed. He'd meant to go to Val Royeaux to order the bed that had columns at the corners. He doubted it would work with his current bed. He wondered if Josephine would be suspicious if he had her do it. 

On the fifth day after he'd come back, she caught his eye at dinner, a subtle cue in the middle of an otherwise innocuous argument she and Varric were having about the literary merit of various novels. She reached out for the carafe of wine and at the hem of her sleeve, he could just barely see the braided cord of the rope he'd tied around her wrist. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He held out his cup and she poured a little wine into it before filling her own glass. It wasn't an exchange worthy of Leliana, but he felt they understood each other. He hoped they understood each other. 

He was working at his desk when she came up the stairs. Josephine had given him a stack of letters to read and things to sign. It had seemed a good idea to deal with them while he was trying to keep his mind off Cassandra's potential arrival. Now it seemed like a better idea to sign them all without attending to their contents. Instead he pushed them aside and set down his plume. 

"Good evening, my lord," she said.

"Are we back to that, my lady Seeker?" he asked. "Surely a handful of weeks hasn't put that much distance between us. I thought they said that absence made the heart grow fonder."

"After so long, I did not want to presume," she said, putting one hand on the back of the sofa, which was in front of the fire again. He'd been toasting his feet by the flames every night just because he could. "You might have changed your mind about this."

"I haven't," he assured her.

She lingered by the sofa. "You seemed upset before you left. I wondered if I had done something."

He rose from the desk and crossed the room to her. "You didn't do anything," he told her. "I had a few things on my mind. I apologize. You deserved all my attention."

"I could not hope for all your attention," she said with a shy smile. 

"You'll have it tonight," he promised. "Where were we?"

"Arms," she said. "I have been trying to stretch."

"Good," he said, and picked up the longest piece of rope. She sat backwards in her chair and he bound her arms together carefully. He had to redo a few of the hitches - one was unstable and the other went the opposite way of the previous ones and looked strange - but he managed. She sat quietly as he used the ends to tie the chest harness that held the rest up. He leaned back to gaze at his handiwork. It wasn't bad. They would do better together.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked.

"Oh yes," she said, resting her cheek on the back of the chair. "Quite comfortable, thank you."

"I suppose I could tie your ankles to the chair, as long as we're here," he said.

"I would like that," she said. "I believe I have considered this configuration to the best of my abilities. I know in which ways I am helpless, and what I could accomplish. More restraints would add dimension to the situation."

"You can take the girl out of the war, but you can't take the warrior out of the girl," he teased, kneeling to pass the rope around her left ankle. She turned her upper body away, reaching out with her bound hands, and scrabbled in the fabric of his tunic, grabbing enough to anchor herself.

"See?" she said. "I am not entirely defenseless."

"I don't believe you could ever be entirely defenseless," he told her, relishing the way she clutched at him. It was a letdown when she released her grip. Maybe that was the way she felt when he untied her. There was relief in it, but disappointment too. While she had been holding him, anything was possible. 

He finished tying her ankles to the legs of the chair, using hitches that would come apart easily, and sat back on his heels in front of the chair, looking up at her. It was the first time in a long time that she had left her boots on. That was good, because it meant he couldn't tie the knots too tightly. He could have reached up to hold the slats of the chair back, but she was leaning forward. His hand might have brushed her breasts or been close to her belly, and she hadn't asked for any of that. 

"I could read you something on war strategy," he said. "Or Sera taught me a few new songs."

She shuddered in her restraints. "I do not want to know what Sera thinks is a ballad for the Inquisition. I suspect it involves too many breeches and what may be inside them."

"It does," he said. 

"Would you..." she began, and then hesitated. "Would you touch me?"

"My lady?" he said, too astonished to produce any other words. A sudden blaze roared in his veins. 

"I don't mean intimately," she said hastily. "While you were gone, I realized how long it had been since I had allowed anyone to touch me except in combat. I think there would be a comfort in it, if you would touch me while I cannot move or anticipate it. It will help me overcome my fears."

For a moment he considered reaching up and stroking her face. He could trace the jut of her cheekbone, linger over the curve of her lips, brush the stray locks from her forehead. But he would show his hand entirely then. It wouldn't be fair to overwhelm her with his own unconquered feelings when she could not move. 

"It was only a suggestion," she said when he did nothing.

"Just considering my approach," he told her. "We could all use a little more comfort."

He rose, steadying himself on the chair. A few steps carried him behind her. After a moment, he put his hand on the back of her neck, his thumb grazing the tender skin below her ear, as her cheek still rested on the chair back. She sighed and he could feel her relax. He stayed that way for a minute or two as his thumb rubbed gentle circles against her skin. The ropes complicated things. He couldn't just spread his hands over her back. Instead he let his fingertips follow the lines of the cords, as if he were checking the tension. He wended his way down her arms until he got to her hands. He cupped his hands over hers, leaning forward gently until his arms brushed hers but didn't increase the pressure on her shoulders. She spread her fingers and laced them between his. He closed his eyes. The knotted cord around her wrist lay flat between them and he could almost imagine they both wore it.

Maker, if he'd dreamed in the foul bog of the Fallow Mire, it would have been of this: her trust, her touch, her skin on his. Cassandra was everything he'd never known he wanted. If he had a rift that stopped time, he would go back to the moment he had fallen in love with her, that unidentifiable and inconsequential moment, and tell himself there was no coming back from this. His past self wouldn't listen. It wouldn't be a warning anyway, just a message. _You will do this. You will not be able to help yourself. She is worth all you have to offer and more._

He carefully untangled his fingers from her, smoothing the backs of her hands so she understood it was not a rejection, and ran his palms down her arms. His hands bumped over the ropes, but he tried to move as softly as he could. She relaxed further into her bonds. By the Lady, she was beautiful like this. Not because she was conquered, but because she surrendered herself to him, putting herself entirely into his care. The firelight glowed on her skin. Contentment smoothed her skin and softened the clenched line of her jaw. She looked like an icon, worthy of worship. 

"Before you left, you spoke of other careers," she said. "I was not joking when I said I would engage you as my masseuse."

"I would be delighted to slather you in liniment, my lady," he said. 

"An idea for the surgeon," she said drowsily. "A tent where our soldiers could have their tension relieved."

"Varric might call that something else," Trevelyan said.

"Oh, Varric," she said, but the word didn't hold any venom. "You always take my meaning."

"I do my best," he said. He couldn't reach her spine the way her arms were bound. Her ribs, hips, and thighs were dangerous territory, full of temptation. But he could rub her shoulders where the cords didn't cross them, so he did that, his thumbs pressing into the tight muscles. 

"Marvelous," she said. He kneaded his knuckles into her upper back. The muscles there were tense too. She had been bound long enough. She would exceed her limits if he let her, her usual caution outweighed by the joy they both found in this reunion. 

"I think you've had enough," he said, and began unpicking the knots. 

"I suppose I have," she said reluctantly. 

"There will be other opportunities," he reminded her.

"Tomorrow?" she asked.

"If you like," he said. 

"I don't want to impose," she said as he eased her wrists apart.

"Josephine tries to make sure my evenings are my own," he told her. "A kindness I won't forget."

"Nor I," she said in a throaty voice that went all through him. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms as the rope slithered to the floor. She leaned back until her shoulders rested lightly against his stomach. It was impossible not to want her. It was impossible to tell her so and violate this trust. He knew without asking she had shared herself like this with few people. Perhaps there had been some rough rubdowns in the barracks, but this was more. She took pleasure in his touch and he would do anything to keep it that way.

There was salve for her wrists. Some of it soaked into her bracelet. It would smell of herbs. He wondered if she would lean her face against her hand so she could catch a whiff of it. He reached down to loosen the ropes that held her ankles to the chair and she stretched her legs out. 

"I am not sure they will hold me," she said thoughtfully. "Not because I was tied too tightly, but I feel weak in the knees."

He helped her to the sofa. They sat side by side. "I should read to you," she said. "Perhaps _Swords & Shields_, but not while I am bound."

"I find it hard to believe Varric doesn't already have a book that describes this situation," Trevelyan said.

Cassandra raised an eyebrow. "Please refrain from inspiring him."

"I have better sense than that," he scoffed. "I enjoy having my blood inside my body."

"As long as we understand each other," she said, and smiled. 

"You can read to me," he said, "but all I have to hand is war history."

"I could tell you about the time Leliana and I coordinated a raid on the Chantry's kitchens," Cassandra offered. "Or the trip to Val Royeaux where Josephine tried to have me accosted by a dressmaker. She assured me I have a fine figure. I assured her I did not want it shown off by a dress."

"Was it frilly?" he asked.

"Terribly," she said solemnly. "You know her taste. Ruffles all the way down. And the neckline - it was shocking. I have never bet against her since in Wicked Grace."

A bell rang in the garden. One of Mother Gisele's innovations, no doubt, informing the faithful of the way the hours passed, a tacit reminder to honor the statue of Andraste that stood in a room near the garden. "I didn't think it was so late," Cassandra said. "We must have taken too long at dinner."

"That is how these things go," he said. 

"I feel quite recovered," she said. 

He watched her as she got up, but she seemed steady on her feet again as she strode across the room. She turned as she reached the stairs. 

"You give me a rare gift," she said. "I hold it very dear. You have so little time, and you give me so much."

"I've told you," he said. "Anything for you." 

"I am lucky," she said, lingering at the top of the stairs with her hand on the balustrade. "I served a fine woman. Now I serve a good man. I am proud to be a part of the Inquisition." 

"And this?" he said. Whatever this was.

"I am more grateful than words could say," she told him. "How strange that overcoming my greatest fear could be so enjoyable. How wonderful to be exploring this with you. We were in the Fade together, reliving those fears. We have been through so much side by side."

"Let us hope for much more," he said.

"Yes," she agreed, "and more like this. You and I deserve a little peace, from time to time. I had forgotten the value of it. I have been at war for so long."

"I thank the Maker that I have something left to offer you," he said. 

"Do not underestimate yourself," she told him. "I doubt we will ever find the limits of your potential."

"Good night," he said.

"Good night," she told him.

"Cassandra," he called when she was out of sight, but he could still hear her boots on the stairs. He heard her stop. "Why did you wait so long?"

Silence. The scuff of a heel. The creak of her leather belts as she shifted. And then: "Everything may change in an instant. You had months to reconsider. You did not call for me. I imagined you might have spent all that time deciding how to phrase your speech to me about how strange all of this is, how unnatural, how unwelcome."

"I would have called," he said, "but I wasn't sure you'd come. You might have had a speech of your own."

"No." Her voice floated up the staircase. "Words too often fail me. I would have left the Iron Bull's book on your desk with the rope bracelet you made for me on top." Of course she had had a plan.

"I don't think any of this is strange or unnatural," he said. "Unexpected, but not the rest."

"Not unwelcome?" she asked.

"Not by any stretch of the imagination," he assured her.

"Thank you," she said. "It is good to hear it."

"Tomorrow," he said. 

"Tomorrow," she echoed, and it sounded sweeter than "good night" ever had.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Seven**

Philippe left her unbound most of the time now, having extracted a promise from her that she would not leap overboard. Only at night would he restrain her. She remembered her first gratitude for the net that held her in her bunk. Now that gratitude was accompanied by a profound thrill. She had been sought after. She had been courted. She had never been mastered. It did not feel like humiliation, the submission Philippe inspired in her. He met her eyes, explaining each step of what he was doing. He made her give her permission. He did nothing without her say. In asking her to submit, he also asked her to assert herself. If she wanted more, she had to tell him so. It was an exquisite dance of open communication and heady subtext. 

He had brushed her hair. Her hands and feet had been tied to a chair. She had been helpless before him. And what had he done? Combed his fingers through her long wild locks until the worst of the knots were undone, brushed her hair with a fine-bristled brush, and braided it into a crown around her head.

"That might be easier to deal with," he'd said, tying off the braid with a bit of leather and weaving the end through the solidly anchored plait.

"When did you learn to do that?" she had asked, bewildered.

"Did you forget, Lady Duvalier?" he'd responded. "I'm a man of the sea. Every sailor can plait."

She hoped he had many more unanticipated talents.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan slips.

Touching her was driving him crazy. It had been a week or so since her request, and she still asked every time. He had dutifully agreed, spending his evenings running his hands over her arms and shoulders. The heat in his palms had been more than the friction between them or the commonplace tingling of the anchor. The previous night, he'd put her on the sofa instead of the chair, her bound arms hooked over the arm, her feet stretched out. He taken off her boots with deliberate care, trying not to think of the scene in her romance novel where Philippe had done the same to Madeleine after six chapters of wanting to. Madeleine hadn't been wearing wool chausses or drilling troops all day, so it was easier than he'd anticipated to dismiss the parallel. He had rubbed Cassandra's feet as she flexed her toes in pleasure and occasionally gasped at his touch. 

He'd had to touch himself after she left to relieve the need that had built in him. It wasn't about her feet (at least, he didn't think so), but her response to his touch had been so compelling. He hadn't been able to stop thinking about moving his hands higher, up her calves and past her thighs, just to hear what sounds she would make if he touched her somewhere more tender, more sensitive. He wanted to stroke her until her body tightened and sang like a bowstring pulled taut. He wanted to tease her until she bucked against him, gasping his name, and went limp in his arms. How long had it been since someone had offered her that kind of release? He had never known her to seek a lover. 

Not for the first time, he wondered which one of them had been bound when they'd begun this adventure. He might not wear the ropes, but he was tied to her. More than anything physical, he wanted to be the one she searched for in a room, the one whose arms she might find solace in. He wanted to be her sword and shield. He wanted to be the place she called home. 

In his mind, she stood in front of him, as solitary and strong as a tower on a hill, all her banners flying proudly. A keep like Cassandra had no need of his heart. He was lucky enough that she had use for his hands. 

To keep his mind off things, he went and sparred with Cullen in the afternoon. It was good practice. Cullen's instincts were good and his reach was long. Getting past his guard took all of Trevelyan's attention. He was pleasantly weary after their session. It felt wonderful to take a bath and dress in fresh clothes after dinner, although by the time he had everything tied and fastened, he felt like he was dressed for something more than an evening of platonic restraint. His anticipation only increased as he heard her arriving. 

"What is my lady's pleasure tonight?" he asked.

"I liked what you did last night," she said, a hint of shyness in her voice. She had bathed too. She was wearing a much lighter tunic than usual. The thin linen clung to her body and she had on slippers instead of boots. 

"Then that's where we'll start," he said. She came to him and turned her back, her hands already clasped together. He worked his way from his wrists to her biceps. He could feel the heat of her body through her tunic. Maybe she had gotten in a workout too. As he passed the ropes across her chest, he could feel that she had not bound her breasts. It was for her comfort, surely, rather than his titillation, but it still sent a shock through him. He led her to the sofa and helped her sit down. 

"And now," he asked.

"Touch me," she said, and he lifted her feet into his lap and began his ministrations. She sighed, tipping her head against the back of the sofa, watching him with contented eyes.

"I cannot say why this is so enjoyable," she said. "I have no control over what you do. It seems like I should hate it. And yet, it comforts me."

"What might I do to you?" he asked. 

"Anything you liked," she said, raising an eyebrow. "I am helpless in your hands."

"I am not that kind of man," he said, digging his thumbs emphatically into the arch of her foot. "Not without appropriate provocation. And you aren't Madeline Duvalier."

"There are times I wish you could steal me away," she said with a sigh. "We have been working so hard for so long."

"You need a few weeks of peace?" he asked. "I thought you thrived on situations like these."

"Everyone needs a moment of quiet now and again," she said. "A vigil of sorts. It restores the soul."

"This is my moment of quiet," he confessed, gazing at her wool-clad feet on his lap. 

"And mine," she said, "but now and then I chafe at the secrecy of it all. It is not in my nature to dissemble."

"It seems a private thing," he said. 

"Yes," she agreed, "but not a shameful one, though the sneaking makes it seem so. Still, it is for the best. It might distract the others to imagine us in such a situation. There is a great deal of potential for misinterpretation." 

"We'll have the stonemasons build a passage for you," he said. "Or a bridge, I suppose."

"Be serious," she said, frowning slightly. 

"You could move into one of the empty chambers here in the castle," he said. "You don't have to live in that space under the eaves."

"It sharpens my mind," she said. 

"I don't think comfort would dull you," he said. 

"Perhaps not," she said. "Visiting your quarters has not compromised my abilities. I am learning a great deal from this experience."

He needed to change the topic of the conversation, or next he would be asking her to marry him. He lifted her feet gently off his lap and went to his desk for Bull's sharpened spur. 

"What is that?" she asked.

"A surprise," he said, caching it in his palm. "Do you trust me?"

"Of course," she said. He sat on the edge of the sofa with his back toward her, leaning to hide the spur. He ran it lightly over the bottom of her foot and she yelped.

"What was that?" she asked, sounding more excited than angry. 

He showed her the spur. "A little toy Bull gave me."

"Do it again," she said, and he obliged, rolling it down the arch of her other foot. 

"I do not know if I like that," she said. 

"I felt the same way," he told her. "Entertainment is not a context in which I've experienced pain."

"It does make me feel as if I am not in control," she said thoughtfully. "I enjoy that. Do it again." 

He did, wheeling it down her foot, up her instep, and past her ankle. She gasped and fidgeted. 

"How easy it would be to make this an instrument of torture," she said.

"I draw the line at torturing you," he told her, turning to face her. 

"I would not ask that of you," she said. "Neither of us needs to endure that. But do you not agree?"

"It's certainly an innovative tool," he said. 

"Again?" she asked, and he spent several minutes tracing prickled lines up her calves while she tried very hard not to move. 

"My fingers are falling asleep," she said at last, sounding regretful. He untied her and chafed her arms until her hands were warm again. They sat together, facing each other, while he rubbed the salve over the marks of the rope at her wrists. She spread her hands palm up on top of her thigh and he ran the spur carefully over her palms. 

"I cannot decide" she said. "It is unbearable, but I do not want to stop."

"Much like our friendship at the beginning," he teased. "Before you knew what to make of me."

"It has been a long time since I had such a friend," she said, gazing at him with warmth in her eyes. 

"A friend who tied you up?" he asked.

She took the spur from him and wheeled it across his wrist. "A person with whom I felt so comfortable."

"Not Leliana?" he asked.

"We are friends," she said, "but we are always colleagues first. The Right and Left Hands had very different functions. Now we are rivals for the Sunburst Throne, though neither of us will discuss it."

"You and I aren't colleagues first?" he asked.

"We were," she said. "Now I think we are not. Do you disagree?"

"No," he said. 

"It was strange while you were gone," she said. "I found myself wanting to speak to you. I value your perspective."

"Meanwhile, I was trying to keep Sera and Vivienne from maiming each other," he said. "I like Blackwall, but I would rather share a tent with you. He hasn't offered me any fine literature."

She laughed. "I cannot imagine he has."

He ran one finger across her palm. "I count myself fortunate to have such a friend. I would not be the Inquisitor without your support.

"There would be no Inquisition without you," she said. "We have had great need of each other."

"I have never found you wanting," he told her. There was a double meaning there: she had always given him everything he needed, but oh, how he wanted more. 

"I serve the Maker's will," she said. "I believe he works through you. Why should I not serve the man who tried to save the Divine? I see His hand upon you. You strive each day to rebuild a Thedas we have only dreamed of. I hope to live in that world."

"I will do my best not to disappoint you," he said. 

She reached out for his hand. "You could never disappoint me."

He didn't plan to reach out and fold her hand between his. He didn't plan to lean forward. And yet, before he could stop himself, he was clasping her hand. Her eyes searched his face. Her smile was puzzled.

He could stop all of this. He could bite back the words he felt rising to his lips. _Maker's breath, I shouldn't do this._ But there was her face in the firelight. There was her hand, relaxed and trusting in his grasp. There were the soft curves of her breasts and the steady thud of the heart that beat under them. Longing leapt up in him, a flame he could not extinguish, as bright as the light of Andraste. 

"Cassandra," he said, and her chin lifted slightly as she gave him her full attention. "I love you."

Her brows creased together. "What do you mean?"

He could still save this. He fumbled for some words that would soften but not erase what he had said. He could not bear to lose her. What began with love that would not drive her from his quarters?

"I love that you trust me," he muttered. "I love the things we have built together."

"Of course," she said, though there was still that wrinkle between her eyes. 

"That's all," he said. 

"We work well together," she said, squeezing his hand and withdrawing hers. 

"We do," he agreed. He let his hands lay on the cushion where she left them.   
There was a sick hollow feeling in his stomach, like a log that had been charred from the inside. 

They sat in silence, both of them watching the fire. She still had the spur. Now she touched it to the edges of the anchor in his palm. His fingers twitched reflexively, but he didn't draw away. He might have ruined everything. He would not squander these last moments of companionship. 

"Does it hurt?" she asked. "We have not discussed it recently."

"Not anymore," he said. "No more than pins and needles."

"You have done great things with it," she said. "I believe that makes it a blessing, no matter the source."

"Your faith means a great deal to me," he told her. "I cannot always see His purpose." 

"That is what my faith is for," she said, still prickling his palm. "I believe in you when your own faith falters. You would do the same for me." She set down the spur. "I have never understood those who think that faith blinds us. It takes great strength to continue to believe in such times as these. My eyes are open; that is why I need faith."

"Yours is stronger than anyone else's I know," he said. "That is a blessing for the rest of us. We hold you as a beacon."

"You are the beacon," she said, touching her fingertips to his. "If I can be the flame that keeps it from being extinguished when the wind and the rain threaten its light, I will be."

He said nothing. He had no other words than those she would not want to hear. If he opened his mouth, he would say it again and again and again. _I love you. I love you._

When she had gone, he laid in his bed staring at the high ceiling reliving the evening. He could not bind his lips or his leaping heart. He would have to find some other method of control or risk losing her. 

It took him a long time to fall asleep.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Eight**

Philippe was having difficulties. He had known women before: he had flirted with them, courted them, and bedded them. But he had never known a woman like Madeleine Duvalier. There was something between them that he could not describe. His hair stood on end around her, as if she were a storm about to break over him, even when she lay quietly in her bonds. In the depths of her long-lashed eyes, some energy crackled. It leapt between them when they touched and seared through his veins. 

He was infatuated. He couldn't deny it to himself anymore. 

There had been something special about her since the moment he had seen her, outlining her lips with crimson in the mirror of her dressing room. 

"Who are you?" she had demanded. He had seen sparks in her eyes even then. 

"I'm here to escort you," he'd said, advancing to her table. It had been easy to pick out the bottle her father had left. 

"Where?" she had asked, but he had already soaked a silk handkerchief with ether and clapped it to her face. Her body had been lithe and warm as he'd slung her over his shoulder. She was precious cargo. He didn't trust any of his men to bear her. 

From the beginning he had admired her spirit. Now he admired the way that spirit bowed to him, obedient but unbroken. It meant a great deal to him that she submitted voluntarily. He had not tried to tame her. Something in them called out to each other. They were two halves of a puzzle box, fitting neatly together. He asked and she answered. He had rewarded her well for that, tying her up in the prettiest knots and offering her the finest wines. But she had tied his heart up in pretty knots as deftly as anyone could hope to. 

No doubt she was engaged to some Antivan merchant prince. He had never asked. They didn't speak of their lives outside the confines of his cabin. What mattered was the way they were together. It had been enough. Now it wasn't. He wanted more and he couldn't possibly ask. He was still her captor. She had had the right to refuse - he had made certain she knew that at every moment, since they had begun to enjoy each other - but she could not be entirely free of him. The ship was too small. He had no right to ask her anything that would make her want to break her promise and fling herself into the unyielding sea. 

But oh, he wanted to.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra may or may not be angry. Trevelyan can't tell.

The good thing about being back in Skyhold was the chance to talk to his people. It took a while now to work his way through everything the War Council required and find time for all of the recruits. Trevelyan finished up a few things for Josephine and stopped in at Herald's Rest for lunch. He asked Krem for ideas about the Chargers and talked to Sera about Jenny business, and then the bard wanted something from him. Over her shoulder, he saw Bull lift a finger in signal.

"Not for nothing," Bull said when Trevelyan had settled down beside him with drinks for both of them, "but you might want to avoid talking to Cassandra today if you don't need her."

"Is there a reason for that?" Trevelyan asked, trying to sound casual. "I like to have the ability to consult with any of my advisors."

"She's already gone through two dummies today," Bull said. "There's training and then there's raging."

"I see," Trevelyan said. 

"Maybe she's just making up for lost time," Bull continued. "I haven't seen her out there in the evenings much lately. Not since you got back from the Fallow Mire. Odd. She usually has nothing better to do."

"Thanks for the warning," Trevelyan said, certain that they understood each other. 

"Any time," Bull said. "Let me know when you're done with my book."

"I'm hoping to hold onto it for a little while, if that's all right," Trevelyan said. 

"Good luck," Bull told him, raising his glass as Trevelyan took his leave. 

He'd have to send Bull another bottle of something good. Maybe a cask for the Chargers.

Bells, an angry Cassandra was not something he wanted to deal with. He still didn't know what he had been hoping for when they began this (a lie, his conscience whispered, he had always known exactly what he hoped for when it came to Cassandra), but it was getting complicated and that was the last thing he needed. Fighting a war on multiple fronts and trying to unite territories and people who didn't want to work together was enough to deal with. 

He wasn't expecting her after Bull's warning. He had stretched out on the sofa after dinner, boots off and tunic open, with Varric's account of all that had happened in Kirkwall. He was so involved in Hawke's adventures that he didn't hear her until she approached the sofa. 

"Lady Cassandra!" he said, struggling up. "What a surprise."

"After all these evenings?" she asked, looking him up and down with one eyebrow raised. He fumbled the closures of his tunic shut. Even if she liked what she saw, it wasn't appropriate to be in a state of undress. For all Cassandra's talk about her past, protocol and manners still dictated her behavior, and his Trevelyan pride would not let him let his own training slip. Leaving the neck of the tunic open was acceptable, but no further. She hadn't seemed to mind the sight of him, though.

"I had heard you might not be in the mood for socializing," he said.

"And who told you that?" she asked, sitting on the arm of the sofa by his feet. 

"Apparently you were quite impressive on the training grounds today," he said, evading her question. "Shall I speak to Ser Morris about acquiring more dummies?"

"We may need sturdier ones," she said. "However, the lack of equipment did not seem a good reason to skip our appointment."

Silence stretched between them. He couldn't quite look at her, couldn't quite look away. When he did meet her gaze, it was steady, implacable, as if none of this had anything to do with him, or them, or any of the things they'd done together. Maybe it didn't. 

"What is the lady's pleasure?" Trevelyan asked.

"Something different," she said. "What else can you show me?"

"I can bind your legs," he said. "That's the other thing Bull showed me last time we talked. It's extremely restrictive."

"Good," she said. "Shall we try?"

"You'll have to lie on the bed," he said. "Or the sofa."

"The bed is fine," she told him, striding over. She took off her boots and lay on her back, gazing at the ceiling. He picked up the rope and brought it over. She was fresh from the bath again. The soap she'd used had a faint spicy smell that he liked. She laced her fingers together over her ribs and lay quietly, watching him. He hadn't seen her from this angle often. The line of her jaw was strong. He sat next to her on the edge of the bed, his right leg bent in front of him and his left foot on the floor.

"May I?" he asked.

"You may," she said, settling her shoulders into the bed. 

"I need to touch your leg," he said, "all the way to the upper thigh."

"I trust you," she told him. "You need not ask each time."

"I wouldn't feel comfortable if I didn't," he said. "I don't ever want you to feel I took things too far."

Her lips pursed briefly at the corners. "I would let you know immediately," she said. "And you have given me a magic word."

"It's important to me," he insisted.

"I know it is," she said. "Your assiduousness is a trait I admire. You take great care with each action. At the same time, knowing each moment what will happen to me does not contribute much to my overcoming helplessness."

He put his hand on her knee. "I'm going to bind your ankle to your thigh," he said. "We'll start with one."

"Not both?" she asked.

"No," he said. "I want you to have a chance to get used to it. Having both tied at once feels too vulnerable."

"You have experienced this?" she asked.

"Bull does everything to me that I do to you," he said. "Apparently it's the best way to learn, because it helps whoever's doing the tying understand the experience of the person being bound."

"What did it feel like?" she asked, eagerly but a little shy.

He considered a moment as he began to pass the rope around her ankle. "It felt like he could have his way with me at any moment."

She raised her eyebrows. "How interesting."

"It was," he said, making a wrap around her thigh. Her leg was firmly muscled under the soft leather of her breeches. "I rather enjoyed it. The experience had a certain appeal."

"And Dorian does not mind this?" she asked.

"I don't think he's told Dorian," he said. "I asked him not to discuss this with anyone. Our circle is small and our friends are both inquisitive and intelligent."

"There is that," she said. 

He wrapped the rope up her leg, hitching as he went. She made small noises somewhere between a sigh and a gasp as she adjusted to the new pressure. He tried not to listen. She hadn't been in his bed for a long time. The part of him that hoped that she would be there in a different context was clamoring for attention as it was. He focused on the tension of the ropes, trying to keep them smooth and even as he made hitches down the inside of her leg and tied it off. 

"Done," he said.

"Very good," she said approvingly. "I cannot move it at all." 

"Closer to where you want to be?" he asked. 

She considered the question. "Closer," she said finally. "Each time I am rendered helpless, I find some new way around it."

"Maybe what you've learned is that you're never truly helpless," he suggested.

"Perhaps," she said. "I suppose even if I were bound hand and foot, I would still have some resources."

"Cutting words," he suggested.

"I was referring to my Seeker's abilities," she said, "but I suppose there is that."

"Do you need a pillow?" he asked.

"Thank you, I will find it myself," she said, and reached over her head. He tried not to watch the way her breasts moved under her tunic as she stretched and wriggled. "Do you have a story for me?"

He shook his head. "I was a boring child, and you've been around for all the most interesting parts of my adult life."

"No scandalous family members?" she asked.

"None worth speaking of," he told her. 

She sighed. "Do you know any poetry?"

"I can recite the first few stanzas of Tyrdda Bright-Axe," he said dubiously. "Or...well, it isn't anything astounding, but Sera was making up poetry to annoy Vivienne while we were in the Fallow Mire, and I can't get it out of my head."

"Recite them to me," she said. 

"We couldn't take the horses in," he said. "You know what the terrain is like. Vivienne was not pleased. Sera came up with a little rhyme about it:

"High and mighty Vivienne  
Wishing for her steed.  
Whoops a doodle,  
In the soup,  
Now she's wet indeed."

"Not the finest I've heard," Cassandra said, "but it does have a certain appeal."

"Vivienne got so mad she slipped in some mud and she did fall into the bog," Trevelyan reminisced. "It would have been funny if she hadn't smelled so bad."

"Another?" Cassandra asked. She shifted her hips. The pressure of the ropes was affecting her. Her muscles weren't trained to bear it yet. He would untie her soon. 

"Wardens have the biggest balls  
The source of all their might.  
Blackwall's are all shriveled up.  
His beard can't make it right."

"Not her best effort," she said critically. "Surely he expressed no interest in her."

"Not in the slightest," Trevelyan said. "I don't think he'd dare."

"I cannot understand how anyone would," Cassandra murmured. "And yet, there are those who wish to bed her. I overhear too much, training the troops."

"There's one about you," he offered. 

"Let me hear it," she said. 

"It isn't the most polite," he told her.

"I did not imagine it was," she said dryly. 

He cleared his throat. 

"The snootypants Seeker Cassandra  
Found herself the Divine's right hander  
In the Inquisition   
She holds some position

He faltered. "...the last line is a little bit rude."

"Rude or not, it is the first time someone has written poetry about me," she said, sounding a little bit pleased. "It might have been more cruel. She must have been feeling generous."

"I composed one too," he said. "After Sera's. To be kinder. There wasn't much else to do once the weapons were sharpened." 

"Oh?" she said, her gaze sharpening.

"It wasn't good," he warned her. "I have never trained as a poet."

"You cannot tell me you composed a poem about me and not recite the poem," she said. "The quality is irrelevant."

"I suppose you can't run away," he said. 

"I can," she said. "I know the magic word. Now declaim, Inquisitor, or I will imagine the worst."

He sighed. 

"There was a princess of Nevarra   
Whose fortune would take her quite far  
She tackled a dragon  
So raise up your flagon  
And drink to a woman with heart."

"Oh dear," she said, covering her mouth with one hand. "How...kind."

"I told you it was terrible," he muttered. 

"I appreciate the effort," she told him. "You did succeed in being more flattering than Sera."

"In the next one, I'll describe your generosity," he said. "I think that's enough." He untied her. It felt strange to rub the long muscles of her leg, but he had always rubbed her arms. It would have been more odd to create a difference between the situations by refraining. He was careful not to let his hand stray too far up her inner thigh, but his thoughts wandered over her body. Cassandra in his bed: it was more and less than a dream.

She pushed herself up on her elbows and watched him push his hands up the sides of her calf. "You didn't think I would come tonight."

"I thought you might need some space," he muttered, looking at her knee. "I thought you might be angry." 

"Why?" she asked. 

"Bull knows," he said. "He told me you had destroyed the dummies. He noticed you weren't training on the same schedule as before." 

"Will he be discreet?" she asked with alarm. 

"I believe he will," Trevelyan said and she relaxed under his hands. "Why did you destroy the dummies?"

"I need to push my limits," she said. "How else will I improve?" But her gaze faltered.

"Cassandra," he said quietly, "the truth is yours alone, but I wish you trusted me."

For long moments she said nothing as he massaged the last marks of the rope out of her breeches. He withdrew his hands slowly and folded them in his lap. She sat up and wrapped her arms loosely around her knees. He waited. This time she did not look away, but appeared to be considering her words with great care. He wondered what battle she was planning for. 

"I was afraid that I had asked too much of you," she said at last. "You told me you had never found me wanting."

"You have always been everything I needed you to be," he assured her. "Done everything I needed done. I would not be sitting here without your support."

"And yet wanting may have other meanings," she said, "and I have wanted much from you. I wanted you to be the Herald. I wanted you to be the Inquisitor. I wanted this to happen and I wanted it to be with you. Perhaps I wanted too much." 

"I do know how to say no," he reminded her gently. "I wanted all of these things as much as you did." 

"You must promise to let me know if what you want changes," she said earnestly. She reached for his hand and clasped it. "I need your word."

"I give you my word as Herald, Inquisitor, and Trevelyan," he told her in the most solemn tones he could conjure. "I will never offer you more than I am willing to give." 

"That is a blessing," she said in a soft voice. "Thank you, Max."

"This is a new milestone," he said. "A person thanking me for promising to refuse them if necessary." 

"A woman in your bed, no less," she teased. "Surely that has not happened." 

"That a woman in my bed has asked me to refuse her?" He pretended to consider. "More often than you might think." 

"No!" she said, her eyes dancing. 

"Some people take pleasure in being refused," he said with a shrug. "But you're right, this is a novel situation."

"I am glad to be your first," she said. 

"You are my first in many ways," he said. 

"Your first princess," she suggested, and he nodded. "Your first knotting partner. Your first Seeker. Your first dragon slayer."

"The first woman I've read a romance novel to," he offered. "Or composed a poem about. The first woman whose feet I've rubbed in front of a fire."

"Surely not," she said. 

"I swear by Andraste," he said. 

"I would have only wagered the first woman fully clothed in your bed," she said.

"Now you have too much faith in my abilities," he joked. "Maybe this is why you never win at Wicked Grace."

"I do not play as badly as Cullen," she muttered.

"No one does," he agreed. "How many people do you think I've seduced?"

"Oh, hundreds," she said airily. 

He laughed. " _Hundreds_ of lovers? When would I have had the time?"

"You are a handsome man," she said. "The son of a noble house, however minor. Surely you received a great deal of attention." 

"That doesn't mean I responded to it," he said. "You consider me handsome?"

"It is a simple fact," she said. "Your face has a pleasant aspect. Your body is well-shaped. No one could dispute it."

He became acutely aware she was still holding her hand. "I could give you the names of at least five people who have disagreed."

"They are wrong," she said in that dismissive way she had that drew a line between her truth and all other ideas. 

"Then I thank you for the compliment," he said. 

"It is not a compliment to speak the truth," she said. 

"Have you had hundreds of lovers?" he asked.

She snorted. "Men do not find me an attractive prospect."

"But you are a beautiful woman," he said, trying to keep the longing out of his voice. "Among your many virtues."

"I have few virtues and no beauty to speak of," she said. "I am not patient or kind or gentle."

"I have never known you to be so wrong about anything as you are about yourself," he said. "Do I need to have Dagna craft a mirror for you, so that you can see yourself truly?"

"One man thought I was beautiful," she said, looking down at her knees. "But that was all over a long time ago. He died at the Conclave. We had not spoken in some time." 

He squeezed her hand gently. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"It makes little difference in the scheme of things," she said. "As I have said, I serve the Maker's will. If I desire romance, I can read about it in books."

"You deserve more," he said.

"Perhaps one day I shall have it," she said. "Perhaps one day we shall all have what we deserve." 

"May the Maker hear you," he said. 

She smiled and carefully withdrew her hand from his. "I will continue to pray." 

"Good," he said. "If He listens to anyone, He listens to you."

"You overestimate me," she said, "as usual."

"I never could," he said. 

She slid to the other edge of the bed and set her feet on the floor. "I should go," she said. "It's getting late." 

"I stand by my offer of a closer room," he said.

"I stand by my choice," she told him, smiling. "I like the quiet above the forge. It allows me to gather my thoughts."

"Yes, the notable quiet of forges," he said. "At least you stay warm."

"Much warmer than you," she said. "We all find our comforts somewhere." She pulled on her boots and straightened, stretching. "Enjoy yours. I will enjoy mine. Good night, Max."

"Good night," he said softly.

She smiled at him and slipped away. He fell back across the bed, unsure of whether to laugh or to weep.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Nine**

Something had changed between them. Madeleine could sense it. There was something in the way Philippe watched her when she was bound. Tension twanged in more than the ropes. When he untied her, his fingers lingered against her skin. He took his time loosening her restraints, as if he feared some loss. 

She wondered if he had heard from her father. Was he taking her back? She had come to enjoy her time on the Caprice, perhaps even to love it. There was a freedom on the ship she had never found in Antiva. Surely Philippe could find some use for her. She was an excellent negotiator. She could expand his trading network and find new contacts and new contracts for the crew. 

What could she do to convince him to keep her on? She had no resources of her own to offer at the moment. She was cut off from her fortune. All she possessed was her wits and her beauty and her stubborn spirit. Her father always said she had been born with a fire inside her that no one could extinguish. 

She would find a way. If words didn't work, then some other method would.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra is impatient.

Now he was the one who wanted to slash dummies in half. Twice he had been incautious. One of these days, she would figure him out, and when she did, she wouldn't speak to him again the way she had in his room, in his bed. She would put distance between them. It made him want to ride out alone, but Skyhold had no trails to speak of that didn't lead to fields of glossy glazed-over snow. He was sure his horse's hooves would beat out her name anyway. Cass-an-dra, cass-an-dra, covering the miles. 

He borrowed a book from the elf in the library - "Anything with a good love story," he'd said, and taken the first book the elf had offered him - to keep himself from reciting poetry to her. The more words he could say to her that weren't his own, the better. All he had left was the truth. 

He read to her as she lay in his bed. It wasn't what he'd dreamed, but it was something. Afterwards he might catch a hint of the soap she used. It had filtered its way into his dreams, that scent. He couldn't wash his hands without reminiscing.

After a few days of binding one leg at a time, Cassandra was impatient. He could feel her eyes on him as he wrapped her leg. He purposefully looked anywhere but her face. It was easy to have an excuse as he smoothed the wraps and adjusted the hitches. 

"Max," she said, and there was command in her tone, "are you stalling?"

"I'm sorry," he said, sitting back after finishing the last knot, "are you interrogating me? Again?"

"No," she said contritely. "I just wondered. I know this technique works on either leg, but you won't do both. Surely we could continue. I have grown used to this position."

"I await the lady's pleasure," he said.

"Please," she said, "my dear friend, will you please bind my other leg?"

"You remember how I said you might feel?" he asked.

"Yes," she told him, "and I promise you that if I am uncomfortable either physically or emotionally, I will ask you to stop." 

"All right," he said, and fetched the other pieces of rope. He worked his way up and down her right leg. He had to tie the two shorter pieces together, but when he was done, there was enough rope left over to hitch her thighs to her wrists. She hadn't said a word while he was tying her up. Occasionally she had made a small noise he had done his best to ignore; they were the kind of breathy sighs that ignited in his blood the way he imagined lyrium did when she used her powers. 

"All right?" he asked when he was finished. 

"I understand what you meant," she said. He thought she was breathing a little faster than normal, her voice a little huskier. "I do feel as if you could have your way with me. How interesting, that in such an activity there is an aspect of intimacy that seems inseparable from the rest. You have made no such overtures, and yet I feel as if you had."

"Is it too much?" he asked. "I could untie your wrists." It would mean reaching between her thighs again, acutely aware of her body. 

"No," she said. "It is precisely what I wanted. I am helpless." 

"Are you afraid?" he asked. 

"Only a little," she said. "Will you read to me?"

He picked up the book and turned to the next chapter. It wasn't a bad story, though he felt the characters' motivations were somewhat lacking. 

"Max," she said, interrupting him mid-sentence, "will you touch me?"

He looked at her, startled. She was still breathing quickly. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes too bright. There was the crease between her eyebrows that showed her stress. She licked her lips.

"How?" he asked. 

"Just anchor me," she said. 

He reached out and rubbed her shoulder. She seemed to relax a little. He shifted closer on the bed and stroked her hair with his left hand. She closed her eyes, the corners of her mouth curving up. 

"Yes," she said. "Talk to me."

"When I was a child," he said, keeping his tone measured and slow. "I had a pony called Éclair." His left hand kept caressing her hair, the backs of his fingers slipping down her cheek. She turned into his touch, pressing her face against his fingers. He cupped her head in his hand, his thumb stroking her brow. "I insisted his name was lightning, but my father said he was a puff pastry." 

Cassandra chuckled, but it sounded slightly strained. Her hands reached up and he let her find his right hand. She brought it back down to rest on her belly. "Go on."

"Éclair was by no measure a fiery steed," he said. "His fastest speed was a canter that felt slower than a dirge, and he had to be goaded into it. But I felt like the greatest horseman in Thedas. We had adventures all over the estate. That's how I originally learned to tie any sort of knot. Éclair had a knack for escaping when we were out exploring. I had to walk home nearly six miles once. I was lucky we had gone out in the morning."

"Were your parents worried?" she asked.

"My father was," he said. "My mother laughed and laughed. She was a rider to reckon with and she had picked Éclair. I remember she told me I had better learn to hold on to the things I loved."

"And did you?" she asked.

"I suppose we'll see," he said. 

"Sing a song," she said.

"I'm not much of a singer," he told her.

"I enjoy your voice nonetheless," she said. "Please."

He rasped his way through a few stanzas of "Once We Were" grateful that it wasn't a long song.

"That was very nice," she said. Her head was still cradled in his hand. His thumb still skimmed its way across her brow. His other hand lay heavy on her belly, cupped in her bound hands. 

"You're lucky I heard that the last time I was at Herald's Rest and not that song about Sera," he said.

"Now who is torturing whom?" she asked without opening her eyes. "Will you untie me?"

"Of course," he said, gently withdrawing his hand from under her head. She didn't watch him unpick the knots, but he could feel the tension draining slowly out of her as the ropes loosened. When her hands were free, she rolled her wrists this way and that, stretching. 

"I'm sorry you didn't enjoy it," he said. He was close enough to lay his cheek on her thigh, if he had wanted. 

"On the contrary," she said, "I liked it very much. It was a useful experience. Will you help me sit up?" 

He stopped what he was doing and offered her his hands. She pulled herself up as he braced against her considerable strength.

"Show me how to undo this properly," she said, and he guided her through unpicking the knots. Together they released her from the ropes. He leaned over her to rub her legs as she stretched her feet and sighed. 

"That seemed to affect you differently," he said as he kneaded her muscles. 

"I had no way out," she said. "Except to use my magic word, which I did not wish to do." She smiled. "At last, I felt confined beyond my means to escape. It is a beginning."

"You were helpless," he said.

"I was," she said, smiling. "And I was not. I am not helpless as long as I have you. Your touch, your voice: they calmed me. I was without recourse, but I was not afraid. You made the difference. I must carry you with me." 

He reached for her wrist and touched the bracelet of rope still tied there. "You do." 

"I do," she said simply, "with or without this. And I have nothing to fear as long as I have you."

Slowly he made a fist and touched his heart, bowing his head. She reached out and pulled his hand away. 

"Do not bow to me," she said. "I am sworn to you, Inquisitor. I serve your purpose."

"We are sworn to each other," he said, his voice a little hoarse.

"I think I might find a way to defend myself with more practice," she said. 

"Then I'll give you the opportunity," he told her.

"Thank you," she said. "Now tell me: whatever happened to Éclair?"

Trevelyan shrugged. "I outgrew him. My mother picked a more appropriate horse. Éclair was given to my sister. He lived a long, fat, and happy life."

"I am glad to hear it," she told him. "I would have hated to think of your sweet pony abandoned."

"He wasn't particularly sweet," he said, "but I would never have abandoned him." 

"When you touched my face," she said, as if she weren't changing the subject, "it was the hand that bears the anchor." He nodded. "I could see it, almost. I imagined I could feel some power in it. Wherever it came from, it is a blessing that it came to you."

"I will do my best to make it so," he said. 

She wobbled a little when she tried to get up and he had to help her to her feet. She insisted she was fine and would not let him escort her down the stairs. 

"It is late," she said. "I am fine. I will see you tomorrow."

"Be well," he said, and watched her make her way out of his quarters. 

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Ten**

Philippe paced the deck. He couldn't keep it to himself much longer. There was something about the light in her eyes when she was helpless in his hands. She enjoyed submitting to him, and oh, Maker, he enjoyed making her submit. He had bound her legs and made her kneel last night, the froth of her petticoats spilling around her like spume. With her hands tied behind her back and her breasts crisscrossed with rope, she had been the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. 

He would have to write to her father. He would have to take her back to her merchant house, her society life, her inevitable strategic marriage to a suitable fellow. He couldn't have her on the Caprice. He would give up everything he had built for her, and he hadn't so much as kissed her. It was more than a body could bear. 

He strode to his cabin for plume and paper. He had always been good with words. He would find the right ones now to end the contract. Surely there would be a courier at the next port. A speedy horse would bring a swift end to the whole thing. He would pay the crew out of his own pockets, eschewing the rest of the fee.

Madeleine Duvalier would be out of his sight and out of his life, the way she ought to be.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, bells.

Some small part of him was relieved the next morning when the War Council convened and had urgent work all over Orlais. He made plans to meet Solas, Blackwall, and Cassandra in Emprise du Lion and sent Cole, Bull, and Dorian ahead to the Hissing Wastes. Josephine and Vivienne accompanied him as far as Val Royeaux - Josie had some diplomatic tangles to unsnarl and Vivienne said she had reasons of her own. Trevelyan suspected she was tired of Skyhold, which was full of Templars, and longing to get back to court for a little while. 

"Cullen?" Trevelyan said. "Varric? Should we just throw a parade and leave Skyhold to Dennett and Harritt and Dagna?"

"I shudder to think what we'd come back to," Cullen said, crossing his arms. "We'll hold down the fort while you're gone." 

It was nice to ride out to Val Royeaux. They stayed in nice inns with soft mattresses and ate good food with better wine. Josephine laughed in the candlelight after her third glass, telling some story about the court that none of them could follow, and Trevelyan thought fondly that he might have fallen for her in another life. Vivienne was insufferable to Josephine in her poisonously sweet manner, but Josephine was more than capable of holding her own against Vivienne's quips about her clothing, tastes, and occupation. Trevelyan suspected she was also capable of pulling out something from the Nightingale's bag of tricks. Vivienne probably knew it too. She didn't cross the line. 

He bought a few books while he was in Val Royeaux - poetry, novels, and something that looked absolutely filthy as a gift for Bull - and had them packed up and sent back to Skyhold, along with a four poster bed. He had a vision in his mind of Cassandra tied to it. It would at least provide some possibilities. 

Whatever business Josephine had seemed to have been resolved quickly. He was glad of it. He had a head for diplomacy in general, but Josephine was beyond him. He saw her off back to Skyhold, accompanied by a few of Cullen's soldiers, bade Vivienne goodbye, and rode off to Emprise du Lion with as small an escort as he could manage. There were serious issues to attend to: red lyrium in the quarry, bandits by the bridge, dragons in the sky. He devoted as much of his attention to them as he could as they rode, but in the hoofbeats, he heard her name. 

Snow fell around them as he and his soldiers rode into camp. He slid off his horse and landed ankle-deep in a drift. He'd have to find Dagna's hot and cold disc where he'd stashed it in his bag. Already his feet were like ice. 

"Inquisitor," said Cassandra behind him.

"Lady Seeker," he said, turning to her. Some part of him wished she would fling herself into his arms, but the realistic side of him knew that would never happen. Blackwall clapped him on the shoulder. Solas nodded from the potions table, where he seemed to be examining herbs. 

"How was Val Royeaux?" Blackwall asked. "Lively?"

"Very," Trevelyan said. "Josephine had her hands full."

"Better her than me," Blackwall said, and Cassandra grumbled assent. 

"I did bring supplies," Trevelyan said, and pulled eight bottles of wine from his saddlebags. "Two for us, six for the scouts and the soldiers."

"It's a start," Blackwall rumbled. 

"I'll find something to drink out of," Solas said, looking pleased.

"What a treat," Cassandra said.

There was a chill in the air, but they had roast vegetables and snoufleur for dinner to go with the wine, which was excellent. Trevelyan split a bottle with Cassandra. Solas had only found two cups. They passed it back and forth between them. He couldn't help remembering the last time they had shared a bottle of wine, when they had agreed that he would tie her up. He glanced at her. She hadn't said much since he arrived, but there was an ease to their interactions that comforted him. 

"We've all been sharing a tent since it's so cold." Blackwall yawned. "I hope you're ready for close quarters."

"Four is too many," Solas said with mild distaste. "I have a fire spell that I think should serve, with suitable modifications, to heat the tent without destroying it."

"I will take my chances in the cold," Cassandra said, and Trevelyan agreed. 

"You're on your own," Blackwall told Solas. "At least for tonight. If it works, I'll join you tomorrow."

Trevelyan dragged his bedroll into the tent and handed Solas' out. He traced the fire rune on Dagna's disc and slid it to the bottom of the bag. It was selfish, but his feet were freezing. An Inquisitor out to have some privileges. He hadn't asked for a bed and a fire. Emprise du Lion was a newer acquisition for the Inquisition and the camps hadn't yet been made permanent. It was too cold to dig foundations. He slept in a tent like the troops did, and he didn't complain. 

Cassandra lifted the flap and came in behind him. She sat on her bedroll next to his, her knees drawn up the way they were when he bound her. The tent floor was covered with fennec furs. She seemed to be floating on an island in a sea of ice. There were more furs heaped against the canvas of the tent. He imagined wrapping her in them, her bare skin against the bear skin, the fur crackling with electricity and the heat of her body. 

"Good evening, Lady Seeker," he said. 

"How strange that we should meet here," she teased. "Do you come here often?"

"Depends on what's here," he joked back, winking at her. "How's it been?"

"We have dealt with the bandits," she said. "Amateurs. They were no match for troops trained by the Inquisition."

"I'm glad to hear that," he said. "You didn't take care of the dragons on your own, did you?"

"And have you miss all the fun?" she asked. "Of course not." 

"Bull will be disappointed," he said. 

"I will find him another dragon," she said dismissively. 

"Who're you finding a dragon?" Blackwall asked, coming into the tent. 

"The Iron Bull," Cassandra said.

"Absolutely," Blackwall agreed. "He can have these if he wants."

"I hear there's a wyvern in the Hissing Wastes," Trevelyan offered. "Maybe that'll satisfy him for a while." 

"I'm satisfied by that dinner," Blackwall said. "Think I'll turn in." 

"A good idea," Cassandra said. "We will need to be well-rested and alert to take on these beasts."

Trevelyan yawned. "Sounds good to me." He kicked off his boots and slid into his bedroll. The fabric was toasty around his toes. He pulled a fur over himself. The other two settled themselves on either side of him. There were a few feet of space between them, but the escaping heat of their bodies would warm the tent to a tolerable temperature. At least, he hoped it would. 

"Sleep tight," Blackwall said, and was snoring moments later. 

In the dark, Trevelyan saw a flicker of movement and reached out to find Cassandra reaching for him. He stretched his fingertips past her palm to graze the edge of the rope bracelet. He hooked his finger into it just for a moment. She clasped his hand and then released it. He burrowed deeper into his bedroll, warmed through by her touch. They might not have the leisure to communicate the way they did in Skyhold, but they had found a way. 

Sometime in the middle of the night he woke to find himself curled around Cassandra, both of them still in their bedrolls, his arm around her under the fur that still covered them both. He was breathing into her hair. She had pressed herself against him. 

"Cassandra," he whispered.

"Mm," she said. 

"Should I move?" he asked.

"So warm," she said, and reached out of her bedroll to pull him closer. She laced her fingers through his and clutched his hand between her breasts.

"Cassandra," he sighed.

"Stay," she whispered, so softly he wasn't sure he heard it, and then she was asleep again, and he slept too. 

He woke the next morning still wrapped around her. She had turned over in her sleep and lay with her forehead against his chin, the two of them breathing heat into the space between them. It was a perfect moment, an unreal gift. He couldn't be awake. He was still asleep, imagining he had woken. It was the only explanation that made sense. She shifted against him and he kissed the top of her head. Her hair was soft. It tickled against his lips. Funny how real it felt, dreaming of kissing Cassandra. 

"Mm," she sighed, a contented sound, and snuggled against him. He kissed her forehead reflexively and she sighed again. It was only when she lifted her face and her lips brushed his that he realized it wasn't a dream. Awareness jolted through him.

"Cassandra," he whispered, trying to find a balance between tenderness and urgency. 

"Max?" she asked, blinking sleepily. "Oh." 

"You were so warm," he whispered. 

"It's all right," she said, and of course, that was the moment that Blackwall woke up, rolled over, and saw them. 

"Oho," he said, "no invitation? You wound me, Inquisitor."

"It's nothing," Trevelyan said. "I guess I was cold and rolled the wrong way." He pushed back the fur to show that they were both still tucked into their individual bedrolls. 

"I wouldn't have cared," Blackwall said. "The world won't give you any warmth. You have to find it where you may." He shrugged. "It's rather adorable, the two of you rolled up together like a pair of innocent sausages. I won't tell the others."

"It has not happened before," Cassandra said, her cheeks a lovely shade of scarlet. 

"Like I said," Blackwall said, "I believe you and it doesn't bother me. Surely you wouldn't be so embarrassed if you'd intended to be found cuddling."

"Cuddling!" Cassandra said in an outraged whisper. The scouts did seem to hear everything. 

"Whatever you want to call it," Blackwall said patiently. He paused. "You're not going to act like this if it happens again tonight, are you? I'll risk the mage and his fire spells if you're going to be strange about it. Bodies seek comfort in whatever form. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm going to find breakfast," Trevelyan said, retrieving Dagna's disc, stuffing his feet into his boots, and shrugging into his overcoat. The cold air slapped him in the face as he exited. It was a sharp contrast to the cozy heat he and Cassandra had generated together. He deactivated the disc and put it in his pocket. If Dagna would just hurry up and do whatever she was doing with cloth or armor or whatever she'd settled on, his troops could be warm in their tents without pressing their bodies to their comrades'. 

The scouts had apparently hidden the cups from Solas, because there were plenty next to the kettle. Trevelyan poured himself a measure of what passed for tea and stood by the fire, sipping at the hot liquid. It scalded down his throat, but couldn't unseat the contentment he felt. Whatever his mind felt about it, his body was happy to have spent so long pressed against Cassandra's. His heart was light. His blood danced in his veins. 

"Are you ready to hunt a dragon?" he called to the troops, and they roared in response. His heart roared too. 

He hoped they wouldn't talk about it, at least not in the camp. That seemed to be her preferred method of dealing with matters: save it for a safe place, a safe time. He was certain there would be things to say later. Still, they had both woken up warm, and that was a good start to any day in Emprise du Lion. If they lived through it, he would hear anything she had to say.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Eleven**

She could tell they were sailing home. She had only been on the ship for a matter of weeks, but home felt different. Maybe it was something in the air. Antiva had its own particular breezes. 

Philippe pretended nothing was out of the ordinary. He bound her in new and interesting ways, pinning her arms to her sides or tying the ropes over her breasts or between her legs in a way she should have found lewd and overly familiar, but which titillated her instead. He had, after all, nearly undressed her almost every night, as no one else on the ship was either qualified or appropriate for the position. 

Madeleine had felt them growing closer and closer, nurturing the seed of something between them, and now he was hauling her back to Antiva without saying a thing to her. 

She couldn't bear it.

She knelt obediently that night as he passed the ropes around her. She felt safest bound. The rocking of the ship bothered her less and less as the days went on, but the ocean was capricious: any moment might bring a storm, or an errant wave that would heel them over, or some sort of sea monster. 

"What course have you set?" she asked.

"Lie on your back," he said, and when she did so, he began to bind her legs. "Are you asking to join the crew?"

"I was merely curious," she said. "The sea may be broad, but it feels as if we've crossed these waters before."

"Very perceptive," he said, devoting himself to the ropes.. 

"And?" she demanded when he said nothing else.

"And you aren't privy to that information, my dear," he said. "So close that pretty mouth unless you've something flattering to say."

"How dare you?" she burst out, wriggling in her ropes. "How dare you return me like a lost package?"

He grabbed her bonds and flung her flat on the bed, pressing her down with the weight of his body. She gasped, but not in fear. He was all muscle against her, a thrilling heft for her frame to bear. 

"I will do with you as I will," he growled in a low voice. "That was our agreement, was it not, Lady Duvalier? My agreements with any other parties will be your business when I choose to inform you of them."

She had nothing flattering to say, so instead she kissed him fiercely, biting at his lip, and he kissed her back with equal passion. Suddenly he ripped himself away, shaking his fingers as he untangled himself from her and her bonds. 

"Maker's breath," he swore, and stormed out of the cabin, leaving her bound and helpless in his bunk.

She swore herself, every word she'd ever learned from her father's stablehands and the crew of the Caprice, and studied the map on the wall, waiting for Philippe to return. With him, she was helpless. Without him, she was helpless. The bonds that held her were more than rope and it was time she admitted it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dragon, a spa day, and an interesting conversation.

As was appropriate to the coldest place the Inquisition controlled aside from Skyhold, the dragon breathed ice. At least they kept warm while they were fighting it. Trevelyan and Cassandra had spent so much time battling so many creatures that they fought as a unit. She taunted and bashed and slashed it with her sword while he slipped past its weakened defenses and dug deep with his daggers. Blackwall and Solas played their parts well, but Trevelyan didn't know their every move the way he did with Cassandra, as if he was always aware of where she was and what she was doing. They wove their way around and under the dragon, slipping across the residue of frost when it breathed. Its hot blood steamed in the snow.

The chill of Emprise du Lion seemed like a cool breeze in comparison to the bitter cold of the dragon's breath. Trevelyan was sweating with effort, his thighs beginning to burn from crouching each time the dragon turned or tried to scoop them in with its wings. It wasn't a pleasant sweatiness, the sign of good work. It was fear sweat and he stank with it. He was fighting for his life, for all their lives. He was afraid of the dragon - not petrified, but fearful enough to have that sinking feeling in his stomach when he took a moment to re-evaluate the fight. Of course he was. It was enormous, a horror caught out of time, bent on his destruction. It would die today or he would die. But when he looked at Cassandra, there was no fear in her eyes, only determination and a whisper of wistfulness. She was thinking about her brother, he realized. She probably thought about her brother every time.

And yet he kept asking more of her.

It took a long time, but they brought down the Hivernal. It was Blackwall, in the end, whose sword ripped through the scales of its throat. It screeched, made a horrible bubbling sound, and crashed to the ground at last. He and Cassandra barely got out from under the corpse as it toppled.

"We feast tonight, troops!" shouted one of the soldiers, and there was a general ruckus of jubilant agreement. They were hacking the corpse into chunks and piling them on a sled before Trevelyan even had time to examine the body or take the head. Surely they'd keep the head for him. He shivered. As soon as the dragon had fallen and he'd stopped moving, the cold had wormed into him. He was acutely aware he was wet all over. He felt like he'd sweated through his gambeson.

Cassandra planted her sword tip in the ground and leaned on her weapon. "Now Iron Bull will definitely never forgive us. Eating a dragon? Surely that's part of an elaborate fantasy he's been nurturing for years."

"Maybe I can take him some jerky," Trevelyan said. He was moving stiffly, chilled so deep he felt as if his joints were frozen.

"You won't go tonight," she said.

"No," he told her. "I want to see if there's anything we can do about that red lyrium, and see if we can scout out anything about the other two dragons. Maybe I should come back when I'm done with the Hissing Wastes, but I can't deal with another one tomorrow."

"I doubt we'll be fit to deal with much tomorrow," Blackwall said, putting his hands on his lower back and stretching. "Getting too old for this."

"You'll be pleased to hear that the scouts report a hot spring just over that ridge," Solas said. "Either that or another dragon, but it looks more like steam than smoke."

"I'll take my chances," Blackwall said.

It was indeed a hot spring, steaming but not too hot to bear, and deep as a luxurious bath in Val Royeaux, which was to say almost deep enough to swim in. Ice crackled around the edge where the water had splashed up. Trevelyan arranged for towels and a small tent to be brought up, and then they all stripped down to their undershirts and hose and climbed into the water. There was a benefit to being in Emprise du Lion after all. They had to wear so many clothes to keep warm that there were layers enough to preserve some semblance of propriety. Cassandra sank in to her collarbones and stayed that way. Trevelyan tried not to look at the flush that tinted her skin or think of the way the wet silk surely clung to her body. He tried not to imagine sneaking back to the spring with her, just the two of them, half-floating together while he took her in his arms. Her sighs of contentment would take on a different tone at that point.

"It is good we found this place," Solas said. "It soothes the body and the spirit."

"Aye," Blackwall agreed. "If you brought me an ale, I might stay in all day."

"I might anyway," said Trevelyan, scooping water and holding it to his ear, which had been grazed by the dragon's icy breath. "There isn't that much day left. It gets dark so early here."

"The best thing about places like this," Blackwall said. "You get to go to bed early and often." He made no mention of the morning. His eyes didn't flicker to Trevelyan or Cassandra. Evidently he really didn't care. Then again, it had been entirely innocent. Even the kiss had been more of a peck.

The kiss.

Andraste's tits, Cassandra had kissed him. Certainly he'd kissed her first, but she'd kissed him on the lips. He glanced at her again. She was sweating delicately, her hair feathered to her head. It gave her a glow he was certain could be replicated in the bedroom under the right circumstances. Now and then she licked her lips. She had pressed those lips to his just that morning. Lightly, certainly, but there had been contact. He would have sworn he could still feel it. He knew her skin got dry in the winter's cold, especially her lips, and she rubbed them with a rose-scented salve the healers made. There had been just a taste of it left after her night's sleep.

What had she meant by the kiss? Had she been as disoriented as he had been? The realm of sleep seemed far from the waking world. Things could happen there that didn't ever come true. Perhaps she had thought he was someone else. She had spoken his name in a tone tinged with surprise.

He sighed and leaned his face against a flat rock at the edge of the spring. It was cooler than the water and felt soothing against his hot skin. Under the water, something brushed his foot. He jerked back and saw Cassandra jump too.

"No fish in here, surely," Blackwall said. "Then what touched me?"

"If there are, I would like to study them," Solas said. "I suspect the healers would as well."

"I do not think there are any fish in the spring," Cassandra said. "I believe I kicked you by accident as I moved."

"No harm," Blackwall said in a lazy voice.

They stayed in the spring for a while longer. Trevelyan bathed his ear. It stung as it warmed, but at least there was feeling in it again. Solas got out first. A mist swirled around him as he emerged, and he was dry by the time he had climbed all the way out.

"A neat trick," Blackwall grunted. "Not one I have the knack of." He heaved himself out, a bulwark of muscle wrapped in clinging, sodden silk. The water sloshed back and forth, lapping against Trevelyan's collarbone and Cassandra's chin. They looked at each other. She met his eyes, but didn't smile the way he'd become accustomed to, all those evenings in his quarters. He wished they were there now. He wished he had a hot spring in his quarters, when it came to that. That would introduce a lot of interesting possibilities into his life. Mostly a lot more baths.

"How is your ear?" Cassandra asked. "I saw you touching it."

"It'll be all right," Trevelyan said. "It's not the worst I've gotten from a dragon."

"No," she said, "we were very lucky. And very prepared. We have come a very long way from the force we were at Haven."

"Coming from you, that is a great compliment," he said. "We all share some of the credit."

"This is why people follow you," she said. "You share whatever wealth there is. It is an admirable trait."

"You're too kind to me," he said.

"Only so much as you deserve," she said with a twinkle in her eye. She lifted her hand out of the water. "My fingers are wrinkled. We have been in here quite some time." Trevelyan saw Blackwall emerge from the tent, clothed again.

"Wait," he told her as he climbed out of the spring. "I'll be back." He went hastily to the tent. Solas must have perfected the fire spell, because the tent was warmed by a crackling blue ball of flame that floated in the center of the space. Trevelyan stepped around it carefully, drying himself and pulling on the fresh garments the soldiers had brought, and then he went back to the spring where Cassandra lounged. He could vaguely see the shape of her body under the steaming surface of the water. Maker, he longed to see the rest of her. One day it might happen, Andraste willing, but not tonight. He was no Iron Bull, stirred to sexual ecstasy by dragon slaying. For now, he would shield her body, if she accepted his assistance.

"All right," he said, and held up a blanket, spreading it so that it would cover her from the sight of the others as she got out. He looked back over his shoulder, away from the pool. "If you want this, here it is."

He could hear sloshing noises, but he didn't peek. He felt her step up to the blanket and he folded it around her shoulders.

"Thank you," she said. "My body does not trouble me, but it was a kind gesture. From time to time, others have been troubled by it."

"I didn't think you'd enjoy the troops discussing the time they saw the Seeker without much left to the imagination," Trevelyan said. "If I could preserve your dignity, I wanted to."

"It is entertaining how eagerly they believe that my dignity is part of my armor," Cassandra mused, stepping past him on her way to the tent. "As if I am so easily compromised that I must remove them both at once. But it was kind, as I said, and there would have been talk, with more to substantiate it than the usual rumors about the uptight Lady Pentaghast." She looked him up and down, smirking slightly. "And I am sure there will be talk about you." She disappeared into the tent.  
It was all too much for one day. He tried to keep his mind occupied as they slogged back to camp, imagining all the documents Josephine would be preparing in his absence and the reports Leliana and Cullen would deliver. Leading the Inquisition required so much more paperwork than he had imagined.

As it turned out, the dragon was delicious, crackling with fat and smoky flavor. There was ale for Blackwall, two casks that gushed dark foamy ale that tasted as deep and bitter as a winter night. Cassandra settled herself next to Trevelyan, as if she was determined to keep things as absolutely normal as possible. They had been side by side since the Temple of Sacred Ashes, since the moment she had trusted him to keep the daggers he'd found in that first fight against the demons on the frozen river. She wouldn't leave him over a kiss. He grinned at her, full and happy and a little tipsy, and she smiled back.

Blackwall had moved his bedroll out of the tent when they came back to it. Apparently his faith in Solas' spell had been redeemed by a night without incident and the tent at the hot spring.

"I'm sure it has nothing to do with...anything," Trevelyan said, sliding off his boots and loosening the fastenings of his clothes to an appropriate level. "He did say he would."

"I agree," Cassandra said, doing the same. "It will be more comfortable with two, aside from the additional warmth." She looked down at her bedroll. "Perhaps we should plan to sleep closer to one another. We seemed to require the heat."

"If that's what you want," he said, his pulse quickening.

"I would rather plan to wake up next to you than find myself in an unexpected situation," she said. She gathered the furs on the ground, plumping them around the edges of their bedrolls.

"I certainly didn't plan for it either," he said as she slid into her bedroll. "I hope you know that."

"Of course I do," she said. "You are a man of honor. You would not attempt to take anything that was not offered. I knew that long before we began our experiment."

"If you're offering, I accept," he said. "Blackwall was right. Bodies seek comfort. We both wanted to be warm."

"A simple explanation," she said. "Hand me that blanket." He reached behind him for the enormous fur blanket Blackwall had used and she rolled it into a bolster of sorts and tucked it between their bedrolls. It was a simple solution, and an elegant one, worthy of Cassandra. He felt a little disappointed.

"There," she said. "Now we can rest easy, assured that we will not share more than we wish."

"Cassandra," he said quietly. She looked up at him expectantly. "Did it bother you?"

"We were asleep," she said. "I have believed many times that I was awake and in command of my actions. We were not. It is no important matter."

"If you want to sleep in the other tent, I won't be offended," he said.

"Don't be foolish," she said. "Waking up next to you is no cruel fate in any case. I would rather find myself in your arms than listen to Blackwall snore or Solas muttering to himself."

"A rare compliment," he said.

"Not so rare these days," she said, smiling. "Perhaps one day I will have given you enough that you can stop remarking on them.  Stop standing there as if you haven't determined whether or not I am a dragon. I will not bite you. I will not even freeze your ear."

"All right," he said, and crawled into his bedroll. He heaped the rest of the furs over them. She patted them into place, smoothing the hairs down. They lay down, facing each other, peering over the bolster.

"See?" she said. "Easily remedied."

"Your genius has been underappreciated," he told her.

"I haven't slept next to anyone in quite a while," she said. "Perhaps that is why."

"So you have hidden depths?" he asked, and then bit his tongue.

"Perhaps I do," she said. "Good night, Max."

She turned over and he stared into the dark, feeling the shift of her body through the bolster between them.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Twelve**

He had come back almost immediately to untie her, and then he had escorted her back to her cabin and left her there. She'd tried the door at once: it wasn't locked. The fact that he hadn't bothered to confine her was almost insulting. She was more than capable of overpowering him if necessary. Her father had seen to it that she had been trained to defend herself.

And if she couldn't fight him, it seemed that she had other methods at her disposal. She had felt the way his body responded to hers.  
Madeleine Duvalier would not be refused. She would not be put away in a cupboard. She was the proud daughter of a proud house and she had always gotten what she wanted. She certainly wouldn't be stopping now. Whoever Philippe Lefort thought he was, whatever storms he thought he had weathered in his life, she was certain he had never met anyone like her. She would capsize him if she had to.

She had found something she needed in the web of his knots. Duvaliers never surrendered. She would not betray her family's tradition.

Philippe Lefort would do as she asked, or he would suffer the consequences.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warmth is important.

Trevelyan woke suddenly in the middle of the night and wasn't sure why, and then realized Cassandra was withdrawing her hand from under the edge of his tunic, and the brush of her fingers had woken him.

"I must have been cold," she said, not looking at him. She turned over, her back to him again, and settled back down without saying anything more.

He could feel where her hand had lain, the cool spot just over his hip now bereft of the warmth of her. They were still both tucked under the furs in their separate bedrolls, the bolster she had made pressed between them. She must have gotten warm enough in her sleep to work her arm out of her bedroll, and then cold enough to seek the heat of his skin. That was the simplest explanation.

He fell asleep again before he could think any more about it.

When he woke sometime before dawn, his arm was stretched over the bolster and around Cassandra's waist. He could feel that they were both half out of their bedrolls, the top layer pushed down to their hips, the fur blanket still covering them to the shoulders. Her hand was clasped over his, as if she had pulled him to her. He lay quietly, pondering his options. If he moved, he would surely wake her. If he didn't move, and she woke anyway, she would wonder why he hadn't moved. The latter seemed less polite - thus far, with these unplanned contacts, each of them had disentangled themselves as soon as they could - so he carefully slipped his hand out from under hers and pulled back his arm. She turned over as he did, murmuring something he couldn't hear, and draped her arm over his hip. Her fingers splayed across his back. He stilled, uncertain, and then sighed and put his arm back around her. It seemed the fairest thing to do, to implicate both of their sleeping selves, and anyway, he liked touching her. He liked her touching him. He wished she wanted to touch him while she was awake.

Maker, he wished she wanted to touch him while she was awake. He wished she would slip her cool strong hands under his tunic and caress his skin. He wished she would unfasten each of the clasps of his clothing and drag her fingertips over his scars, mapping the topography of them the way she explored any new territory: thoroughly, with an eye for detail and a strategic focus. She could knead the stiffness out of the long muscles of his back. Would she touch him boldly, an echo of the way she strode into battle? Or would she be delicate, hesitant, uncertain of her claim to him?

No. Whatever Cassandra thought of herself, he knew fear was against her nature. If she wanted him, she would reach for him, as sure as she was of her faith. If she wanted to kiss him, she would find a time and a place that suited her and draw his face down to hers.

There had been ample opportunity, surely, between the nights they had spent in tents together camping and the nights they had spent in his quarters as he restrained her. There had been enough moments of whispering with their faces close together, enough times she might have taken his hand and drawn it to her cheek. If she wanted him, she would have already told him. Whatever happened at night was nothing but two bodies that found little tenderness in the waking world and sought it at night instead. He might as well have been reaching out for Dorian or Varric or Vivienne. They had all expressed an equal amount of romantic interest in him, which was to say none, beyond the flirting that Dorian practiced with anyone who breathed. If Cassandra reached out to him in the dark, it was only because she trusted him, not because she wanted more.

He sighed and closed his eyes. He could already feel the way his body would ache when he woke. They would all be stiff today. Perhaps he could talk her into going back to the hot spring. He could feel himself floating away, drifting back into sleep.

The bustle of the scouts cooking breakfast roused them both. Immediately he could feel Cassandra's hand, which had found its way under his tunic again. Her fingers moved very slightly, a caress or a waking reflex. He lifted his arm from her waist and smoothed down the bolster between them so he could see her face. She blinked slowly, the gleam of her eyes barely visible through her lashes.

"You must have been cold again," he said.

"Again?" she said in a voice that wasn't entirely awake. Her fingers were still moving against his skin. It was incredibly distracting.

"Your hand," he said.

"Mm," she said, stroking a path across his waist and down over his belly as she withdrew it. Sparks shot up his spine. "I apologize."

"No need," he said. "I don't mind sharing my warmth with you."

"A horse stepped on it once," she murmured. "It healed, but it aches sometimes in the cold." She yawned. "The weather in Emprise du Lion is unkind, even without an ice dragon to deal with."

He reached for her hand and slipped it back under his tunic, flattening his hand gently over hers. It was selfish of him, to want her skin against his. He was deceiving her if he let her think the gesture was purely for her benefit. But the pang of guilt he felt didn't overwhelm the crackling sparks in his veins. Her hand was callused and the roughness of it made the skin of his waist prickle deliciously, imagining friction. "Let me know when it feels better."

"You do not have to coddle me," she said. "I have grown used to it over the years."

"Cassandra," he said, and her eyes met his. "Will you only let me care for you if you're tied up in my ropes?"

It wasn't what he'd intended to say, or not exactly how he'd intended to say it. Between the wording and the sincerity that had found its way into his voice, it sounded more like a declaration of love than a simple question.

"I have not had such a friend in a very long time," she said. "Forgive me if I am slow to remember what it feels like."

He wanted very badly to ask what it felt like from her perspective, but instead, he said, "Warm. It feels warm."

"It does," she said, and they must both have been exhausted, because the next thing he knew, he was waking up again to Blackwall's voice outside the tent.

"Are you two going to sleep the day away?" he asked, the outline of him barely visible through the sunlit fabric. "It's closer to lunch than breakfast, but I had the scouts save you a few sausages. I'm going to eat them if you're not getting up."

"We're up," Trevelyan called, rolling onto his back, which made Cassandra's hand slide across his stomach again. He tingled all over as she tucked her hand back into the blankets on her side.

"They will imagine the worst," she said wryly. "No matter how quietly he says it."

"The worst?" he asked, as if he didn't know what she meant.

"They will not believe we were only sleeping," she said. "You know that."

"I'm happy to set the record straight," he offered.

She sat up, shaking her head. "It will only arouse more suspicion if you make a point of denying it."

"That doesn't seem like the worst thing that could happen," he said. "The idea of more-than-sleeping with you, I mean."

Her smile was slightly crooked. "No," she said. "It could be Solas sharing your tent, and then no one would ever believe you had been sleeping."

"Then I'll sleep in with Bull next time," he said. "Throw them off the trail."

"There is no trail," she said, passing her hands over her face. He could see now the slight stiffness in her right hand and wondered why he had never noticed before. "But it would certainly provide grist for the rumor mill."

"Confusion to my enemies," he said, and she laughed and then stopped.

"Now I am adding to it," she said, smiling. "Who ever laughs in the morning except lovers?"

"We do," he said, climbing to his feet and offering her a hand.

"So it would seem," she said, allowing him to pull her up. "How unconventional."

"Sometimes convention is overrated," he said, finding his boots and his outer layers and making sure his clothes were fastened.

"I agree," she said as she dressed, "but that should not surprise you."

"Many things about you surprise me," he said, "but not that."

"I will ask you to elaborate on that later," she said, ducking out of the tent. He wondered if he'd ever have the words to answer her. Unlikely, he decided, unless he said all that was in his heart, and that was impossible. If he told her that he loved her, that he wanted more than the privilege of soothing a few of her hurts, that he pledged himself to her body and soul, she would withdraw. Her fondness for him did not extend to the intimacy he craved. She would never undo the clasps of his tunic one by one until he was bare before her and put her hand over his heart, swearing herself to him in return.

Perhaps the question would seem less difficult after breakfast. He pushed his way out of the relative shelter of the tent and into the bright morning.

There were sausages, reheated in some of the dragon's fat until they split, and eggs fried in the same fat, and tea, and a rough bread that the kitchens at the fortress had made. No one was starving in Emprise du Lion anymore, but they couldn't rebuild until the thaw came. Trevelyan made a note to himself to at least have the tents put on platforms, or to have nets installed like low hammocks. The cold of the ground seeped into one's bones, even through the thick layer of furs.

The troops were sparring, Blackwall among them, and he and Cassandra joined them. He was stiff and clumsy at first, but the familiar movements loosened him up. It was a good way to work some of the ache out of his muscles and some of the thoughts out of his mind.

"I could use another trip to that spring," Blackwall said after they were finished.

"As could I," Cassandra said. "It was most restorative."

"Surely we could have Dagna build something like it at Skyhold," Trevelyan said, sheathing his daggers.

"Maybe," Blackwall said. "But this one's here, so I'm going to take advantage."

"We can check for signs of bandits along the route," Cassandra said. "Just in case."

After a meal of more dragon meat and more bread to sop up the grease, they trekked across the bridge to the spring. The tent from the day before was still there - foresight on the part of the soldiers, who probably wanted to soak themselves - and Solas' spell still warmed it. The ground inside the tent was soggy, and the snow had melted in a ring around it.

"Better and better," said Blackwall happily, stripping off his outer layers and climbing into the spring. Trevelyan and Cassandra draped their clothes and the towels they'd brought over the branches of a nearby tree. The snow stung his feet as he walked the few paces to the spring, and the water stung his feet as he sank in. At least he hadn't worn silk underlayers this time. Linen was much more comfortable for this purpose and didn't feel as if it was stretched tight enough to snap. Trevelyan submerged his left hand in the water and watched the anchor glow through the steam.

"Are you sleeping together?" Blackwall asked suddenly.

"No!" Cassandra said.

"No," Trevelyan agreed.

"I only wondered," Blackwall said, raising his hands above the water with his palms flat in a gesture of placation. "It wouldn't have bothered me."

"Your kindness is appreciated," Cassandra said crisply, "but it is also unnecessary."

"All right, all right," he said. "Perhaps you ought to consider it."

"Consider what?" Trevelyan asked.

"Sleeping together," Blackwall said patiently. "You seem tense."

"I appreciate this advice much less," Cassandra told him. "Each of us is more than able to make our own decisions about our own intimate affairs. You are not the Iron Bull, to discuss sex as if it were as simple as scratching one's back. Not all of us run into one another's arms just because we are experiencing stress."

"It's obvious to anyone with eyes that you care about each other," Blackwall said. "I just thought it might be convenient. There's an element of romance there too: the Inquisitor and the Seeker of Truth. Two powerful figures with jobs to do at the mercy of their own hearts. I would think that would appeal to you all of all people, Cassandra."

"Perhaps you should keep future thoughts to yourself," Cassandra suggested. "Or at least, do not offer them while we are all wet in the middle of a frozen forest. It makes it difficult to storm away."

Blackwall laughed. "Point taken."

"There is nothing romantic about shirking your responsibilities just because you have feelings for someone," Cassandra continued, although Trevelyan was nearly certain she didn't actually believe that, at least not when it came to literature. "It is impossible that Ser Trevelyan and I could ever have that sort of relationship. The Inquisition is too important. The people's trust in the integrity of our decisions would be compromised." She looked at Trevelyan. "Surely you agree."

"Of course," he said, his heart sinking. He had known that she felt that way, but she had never said it to him in quite so many words. "The Inquisition comes before anything else. There are other ways to relieve tension."

"Perhaps Dagna will build you a hot spring," Blackwall said. "That might serve."

"It might," Trevelyan agreed, and for a while, they all soaked in silence, watching the steam rise among the bare black trees and the white snow.

  
**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Thirteen**

Philippe looked up as the door to his cabin slammed open.

"You cannot do this to me," Madeleine said.

"Lady Duvalier," he said calmly, "I believe we have already had this conversation. I will do with you exactly what I always have, which is to say exactly what I wish. Now, unless you require help undressing, I have work to do."

"And what if I said yes?" she demanded. "What if I asked you to undress me, and gave myself to you? Would you drop me then on my father's doorstep?"

He stood, furiously rigid, tension radiating off his body. "Lady Duvalier, if you gave yourself to me, it would be with the expectation of nothing in return but my own joyous surrender. I will not be bought with the promise of intimacy. Such a thing would mean nothing to me, unless both hearts held the same passion." He shook his head. "Do you esteem me so little?"

"I have nothing left to give except myself," she said, trying to match his hauteur, but he could tell he had shocked her, and some of the steel had melted out of her. "I hoped you might make a bargain."

He raked her up and down with his eyes, making certain she noticed. Her spine stiffened again as her fury returned. Good. He needed her furious. He would not be able to complete the job if she began to yield to him.

"You have treasures a man might long to possess," he told her. "But I find myself able to resist."

"Do you?" she demanded, victory flashing in her eyes. "Tell me your heart holds no passion, Captain Lefort. You and I, we _shared_ that kiss. It was not the impulse of only one heart. Perhaps that is why you fled."

He growled under his breath. "You are mistaken."

"I am rarely mistaken, Captain Lefort," she said, turning her back to him and setting her hand on the knob of the door. "Until this evening, then. I will indeed require your aid in undressing." She opened the door and slipped out, leaving him standing in the middle of his cabin, his heart beating fast.


	14. Chapter 14

When they returned to camp, the first thing Trevelyan did was approach Solas.

"Do you think you could cast that fire spell again?" he asked. "I noticed the one by the hot spring was still active. Could you maintain another one?"

"Of course," Solas said. "It would be a simple matter." He looked almost offended, but then, he looked that way much of the time.

"It gets cold in the tent," Trevelyan said. "I'd appreciate it."

"I will go now, before they prepare dinner," Solas said, and went. Trevelyan slipped in after he was finished and rearranged the bedrolls and the furs, creating two separate heaps five feet apart instead of one pile of furs.

Dinner was more dragon meat and more ale. Fortunately, both were very good and none of them were tired of it yet. The cook had spiced the meat differently and it was full of subtle flavor. Trevelyan made a note to himself to ensure the cook got a nice bonus. From his seat by the fireside, he could see the gentle glimmer of light from their tent that meant that Solas' spell was active. He wondered if Cassandra would thank him, or if she would feel the same gentle pang that he felt at the thought of spending the night separated from each other by more than a few furs.

They retired to their tent together, which no one remarked on, as most of the others were also finding their bedrolls, save those who took the first watch. Trevelyan held the tent flap for Cassandra.

"Ah," she said as she entered. "Our friend Solas' work, I presume."

"The same," he said. "I thought it might be easier this way. I seem to presume too much in my sleep."

"The blame lies with both of us," she said. He thought she was frowning, but it was hard to tell.

He handed her Dagna's disc. "In case your hand gets cold. Trace the fire rune and it will warm up."

"Thank you," she said. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"It was no trouble," he said. "Once I was certain that Solas wouldn't burn the camp down, it was the simplest solution."

"Very elegant," she said, sitting down and taking off her boots and what layers she could remove. She crawled into her bedroll.

He prepared for bed himself, mindful of the fireball that hovered above them. It shed heat and dim light. He would have to cover his eyes to fall asleep. He hadn't yet developed the soldier's knack of sleeping when it was bright.

"I don't suppose you brought the rope," she said to the ceiling of the tent.

"I have some," he said, "but it isn't the soft one, and it's outside. I wasn't sure what the arrangements would be when I came."

"Nevermind," she said.

"I could read to you," he offered. "I did bring one of the books I bought in Val Royeaux."

"I would like that," she said. "What is it about?"

"It's supposed to be similar to _Swords & Shields_," he said, "except this time the knight-commander falls in love with a wandering poet who is a pacifist, and she has to decide whether to break her contract to be with him."

"It sounds wonderful," she said.

Trevelyan reached for his pack and pulled it close, searching the largest compartment for the book. He cleared his throat. "Chapter one," he said. "It was another wearying day for Knight-Commander Simone."

Cassandra made a pleased noise and cuddled into her blankets. He saw that she was clutching the disc in her right hand. He read a few chapters to her, until he noticed that she was blinking more and more often, and then he put down the book.

"Good night, Lady Seeker," he said. "Sleep well."

"Good night, Inquisitor."

He shifted lower in his bedroll and pulled a scarf over his eyes. It was strange and not strange to sleep near her but not next to her. It was better this way. The night passed without incident, and without any contact. They woke up where they were supposed to be. No apologies or explanations were necessary. He was glad, thinking back over the past few mornings, that there had been something of a state of grace in their waking moments: neither of them had ever seemed truly upset, and no unbreachable boundaries had been crossed. Perhaps they had not truly been awake enough to consider their actions fully. Perhaps the warmth had mellowed them both.

He was sore again, as he had expected to be. After weapons practice, he spent the day building wooden floors for the tents with some of the troops. Solas' spell worked very well, but they would be warmer still with a little distance from the ground. He would have to experiment with the hammocks at some point. In the afternoon, he took another trip to the hot spring, making it back just in time for another slice of the Hivernal. His troops had shared the meat of the dragon with the townspeople and the soldiers in the keep and there was still plenty for all.

"We'll try for the Kaltenzahn tomorrow," he said to Blackwall and Solas as they all sat around the fire. "Maybe we can clear it out before I need to head to the Hissing Wastes."

"That still leaves a dragon," Blackwall said.

"If we get very inspired, we'll go and deal with the Highland Ravager too," Trevelyan said. "One ice, one fire. That would cancel out."

"If only we could get them to attack each other," Cassandra said. "So many of our difficulties might be solved."

"None of us speak draconic," Solas said.

"I was joking," she said, "at least partly. I know it's rare."

"Almost as rare as if I made a joke," Solas said, and she laughed. In the firelight, she looked beautiful, and nearly as happy as Trevelyan had ever seen her. He wondered how her uncle and the court could ever have tried to close her in a gilded cage when it was clear she was a slayer of dragons. She was happiest and healthiest with a sword in her hand. A warrior princess. His right hand.

If he couldn't be the person her heart needed, at least he knew he wasn't holding her back.

Trevelyan got up. "I'm turning in." Cassandra looked as if she was going to say something for a moment, but then closed her mouth.

She came into the tent when he was already nearly asleep.

"I would have read to you," he said muzzily.

"It's all right," she said. His eyes were covered by the scarf, but he could hear her moving around. The new wooden platform creaked as she stepped onto it. It didn't sound like she was tucking herself in. Suddenly the furs underneath him moved. His body rocked as he was dragged along with them.

"Cassandra?"

She tugged him closer to the center of the platform again. "In case Solas' spell fails. I would not want to be cold."

"I think it will be all right," he said, bemused. His words came slow as molasses to his foggy brain. "The others are still working."

"There is also the fact that we are going to face a dragon tomorrow," she said. "Which means that there is a chance that we may not see tomorrow's sunset. If this is my last night, I would like to spend it next to you."

"All right," he said faintly.

"I did not think you would mind," she said. He could feel her movements as she climbed under the covers. She fitted her body against his and pulled his arm over her. He nuzzled at the back of her neck, more by instinct than by will.

"Max," she said, but if there was anything else, he was already asleep.

When he woke, she was gone, her side of their nest of blankets empty. He scrambled into his clothes and found her on the training grounds warming up with a series of exercises. He joined her, feeling the stiffness of his muscles ease.

"Have you eaten?" he asked when they had finished.

"Not yet," she said, leaning on her sword.

"You'll need your strength," he said, and tried not to think of the time Philippe had said that to Madeleine.

They equipped themselves after breakfast and soldiered up the mountain to the dragon's lair.

"Another frost dragon," said Solas with slight distaste. "At least we know how to warm ourselves this time."

"I wish I'd packed my bathing clothes," Blackwall said. "It's too cold to go in nude. Well, at least it's too cold to get out nude."

Trevelyan purposefully imagined anything but Cassandra nude in the hot spring. A dragon with purple polka dots. A nug big enough to ride. Leliana's crows descending en masse to carry Blackwall away. But soon enough they were in the dragon's territory. Its roar shook his bones. It came at them like a green and red bolt of lightning, and they were again fighting for their lives.

The fight was long and it wasn't easy. The dragon had brooded, it seemed, and she called her dragonlings to her just as the dragon in the Hinterlands had. Each time Trevelyan thought they might have advantage, she stamped her foot and raised her guard. He used every weapon at his disposal, slashing and hacking, smashing a jar of bees at her feet. Calling down the power of the rift was a miracle every time. His body hummed with the energy of it. It was a blessing, wherever it had originated, one that healed the sky and demolished his enemies. The dragon shrieked as her life force drained away.

Snow flurried down on them as they fought despite the arching blue sky. Trevelyan wasn't certain whether it was from the slight haze in the air or a byproduct of the dragon's breath, but it was beautiful. The air glittered as he dove under the dragon, jabbing at her legs and belly. She roared and turned the air white with frost. The next moment, there were dragonlings, and Trevelyan and Cassandra were battling two of them, standing back to back, a sleek fighting unit.

He was grateful for the strength of his body, honed over years of training. He was grateful for the strength of his friends, who had put in their own work. He was grateful for the bite of his blades, which cut deep. He used all these to ground himself as they wore the dragon down. He was afraid, as he always was, but it could not conquer him as long as he knew these truths. He had come twice through the Fade. He stood beside the best and bravest.

The dragon screamed above him and it made the earth shiver under his feet, but he stood firm and plunged his daggers into her again, and eventually she fell. As soon as her body lay before him, he was exhausted. He wiped his daggers on the edge of his tunic and sheathed them with weary arms. The dragon was immense. She was a mountain. She was a miracle of magic and bone and she was dead. It had been necessary to kill her, but it still felt in some way like a sin.

The soldiers would dispose of her. He turned and began trudging toward the spring. He was sweating from the effort of the battle, but he would be half-frozen by the time he arrived. Walking didn't generate enough heat to keep the cold out of his bones, and the dragon's chill still lingered in the air. It bit at his lungs as he breathed, but it wasn't enough to deaden the smell of blood and sweat.

There was a jingle of buckles behind him and then Cassandra was at his shoulder, walking with him through the glittering day.

"It can be difficult," she said.

"It is always difficult," he told her.

"Something has made it harder this time," she said, but it was a question.

"I can't explain it," he said. "She wasn't the first. She won't be the last. It should be no different from the others."

"It happens," she said, and her gloved hand rested briefly on his shoulder. "Come. Restore yourself. They will need you to acknowledge the victory later."

"I know," he said.

They soaked off the stains of the fight in the spring. Trevelyan even ducked his head under, rinsing out his hair. He wished there was soap, but that seemed like it might pollute the spring more than the blood and sweat that were at least the products of living things. Blackwall and Solas had not followed them this time. Trevelyan wondered dully where they were. Perhaps Solas had found something of interest in the dragon's belly. Perhaps Blackwall had found some sign of the Grey Wardens.

They didn't emerge from the trees until Trevelyan was climbing out of the spring, having let Cassandra change first. She was dressed in a strange collection of clothes, the odds and ends of what the scouts had brought: a skirt over hose, some sort of silky shirt under a gambeson, and a cloak over all of it.

"I love this place," Blackwall said, setting down his sword, "but I do feel a bit like a lobster."

"Interesting," Solas said. "And you turn red. Very like a lobster."

"I can't have my warriors becoming crustaceans," Trevelyan said, ducking into the tent and toweling off. He picked what he could out of the pile of garments, ending up with a velvet robe and heavy fur-lined wool trousers. The scouts had clearly salvaged everything they could from the ruined houses and the rooms of the keep. One could never have too many clothes in a place like this.

"It's too late," Blackwall said, easing into the hot water. "At least I'll always be wearing armor."

"Most of us are more crab than lobster," Cassandra teased.

"The lady has a point," Blackwall said.

"And a deadly pinch," Solas added solemnly, removing his outer layers.

"Two jokes in two days?" Cassandra said. "I am astonished, Solas."

"Perhaps this climate is good for him," Trevelyan said. "The chill makes his thoughts fly faster."

"If I were a crab," Solas said from the water, "I would pinch all of you."

"Then we will take our leave," Cassandra said.

They walked back down the mountain in companionable silence. Snow was still falling, shimmering around them. Trevelyan wished he had a hat.

"Are you feeling better?" Cassandra asked as they approached the camp.

"To some extent," he said. "I don't know what happened, that I should feel so hollow."

"The aftermath of a battle is always strange," she said. "Sometimes one is elated beyond reason, or furious, or desolate, and sometimes the whole endeavour seems pointless. Sometimes one wishes to drown oneself in ale or someone else's arms."

"I have never seen you seem to experience any of these things," he said.

She shrugged. "I have many years of experience hiding myself from others. My feelings have never mattered to my position, and so I have put them aside."

"I hope you don't feel the need to hide yourself from me," he said.

"No," she said. "I am lucky to have found a true friend." She smiled and touched his hand. "Are you ready to celebrate, Inquisitor?"

"Of course," he said.

There was reveling, and a bonfire far bigger than necessary, and all manner of food and drink. There was even cake. One of the soldiers brought out a fiddle and another had a flute, and a some of the others danced to the merry tune. Two dragons brought down in less than a week - it gave everyone reason for joy.

Trevelyan drank his fair share of ale, but was careful not to drown himself. He tapped his feet to the music but did not dance. The Inquisitor had to preserve some measure of dignity. He made his excuses at an appropriate hour and pushed his way into the tent. It was warm inside, still lit by Solas' spell. The walls did little to muffle the music.

He undressed and eased himself into his bedroll, but he could not sleep.  Was it the absence of Cassandra?  Was it the excitement of the day?  The illumination of the spell?  Perhaps the ale bubbling in his belly was the culprit.  He had no answers.  

Cassandra came in while he was still staring into the glowing spell, watching the way it flickered.  

"You are not asleep," she said, stripping out of her odd outfit.

"No," he agreed. "It's a bit noisy."

"Inside your mind, or outside the tent?" she asked.

"Both," he said.

She sat on the platform and slid herself under the blankets, not bothering with her bedroll. "Come here," she said, and pulled him close. His head rested against her shoulder. Their knees knocked together. She stroked his hair.

"You are brave," she said. "And strong and kind. We are blessed that it was you who interrupted Corypheus. You have used the anchor well and wisely."

"Not always," he said.

"None of us is perfect," she assured him. "We are only as the Maker made us. He made you a good man and I am proud to follow you."

He sighed. "You are a blessing."

She chuckled. "I am a contrary and intractable woman who does all her best thinking with a sword in her hand. But I am glad to be of use to you."

It would be easy to press his lips to the pale smooth column of her throat. It would be easy to confess his heart, to murmur all he felt about her into the hollow between her collarbones. But then nothing would ever be easy between them ever again.

"Will you go to the Hissing Wastes tomorrow, or stay to eliminate the last dragon?" she asked.

"The scouts have said she might be too big to handle," he said. "The Hissing Wastes first. I can't deal with three dragons in less than ten days. The only other dilemma here was the red lyrium, and I spoke to the mine foremen this afternoon when we returned. It's too dangerous to leave and the mines are too lucrative to close. They're going to try to open some alternate routes so that people won't be exposed as easily."

"That sounds like the best solution," she said.

"It isn't a good one, but it's the best one," he said, and sighed.

"Hush," she said. "You have earned your rest today."

"It's still noisy," he told her.

"Have I told you the story of my tenth birthday?" she asked. "My uncle wanted me to wear a gown. I insisted I should wear my brother's old armor."

"I can imagine how that went," he said. "Tell me."

It was a charming story, as much of it as he heard, although most of his attention was focused on the scent of her skin and the feel of her fingers running through his hair. Outside, the fiddler and the flautist had grown maudlin. They had given up on reels and were playing the sort of songs people sang when they were drunk, old ballads with lyrics that ached. It added a melancholy air to Cassandra's tale. He imagined her at ten years old, orphaned, but still standing beside her brother.

"In the end," she said, "I wore the gown, but I also wore the gauntlets and the epaulets, and I rode into the hall on my pony." They both laughed.

"That sounds like the Cassandra I know," he said.

"So many years," she said, "and in essence, I have changed so little."

"Cassandra," he said, sleep muffling the edges of his words. "I'm glad we didn't die today."

"I am also glad," she said. "Moments like this balance out the moments of despair."

"Does this qualify as losing myself in your arms?" he heard himself ask.

She laughed softly. "Do you feel lost, my friend?"

"I feel found," he said.

"Then here you are," she said. "Go to sleep, Max. The morning will be bright again."

He drifted away to the lullaby of her heartbeat and the far-off piping of the flute.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Fourteen**

Madeleine was still furious that night as she waited for Philippe to help her undress. How dare he speak to her of honor and then look at her like that? How dare he speak of the sanctity of passion when she was certain he had bedded women before and parted ways with them?

She heard his step in the passageway and turned her back. He entered without speaking to her and began to undo her buttons. She let him unhook every button on her dress bodice and then turned and balanced her foot on his knee as he knelt in front of her to remove her boots.

"You are a fraud," she said.

"Am I?" he said mildly, but she could hear the tension simmering underneath.

"You would not refuse me," she said.

"I would refuse any gift if it were not given in the proper spirit," he said. She lifted her other foot and he tugged off the other boot. When she had both feet on the floor again, she slipped her arms out of her sleeves and pushed her dress off her hips, so that she was wearing only her corset and her small clothes.

"Refuse me, then," she said. "Tie me up like a pretty package and leave me here, aching in an empty room."

He pulled a coil of rope from his jacket and had whipped it around her wrists before she could say anything more. A second coil went around her hips; he wove a harness from it before looping the last of the rope between her legs. A strategically-placed knot rested where she felt it most. She gasped. He sat on the edge of her bed and hooked his fingers through the rope that sat low on her hips, pulling her forward until she was sitting on his lap, straddling his legs.

"Is this what you wanted?" he growled, tensing his thigh beneath her. She moaned despite herself and rocked her hips against the tight muscle of his leg. He pulled her closer with the hand still tangled in the harness and lifted her bound wrists over his head with the other hand.

"Yes," she gasped, "yes, yes."

"You make a pretty package indeed," he growled, "but no rope of mine can restrain your heart." He was tugging at the harness now, urging her to grind against him ever more firmly. She splayed her knees farther, settling herself lower onto his lap, and it it wasn't only the knot rubbing at the core of her.

"You're wrong," she managed. "You have ensnared me, passion and all."

"Are you bound to me?" he asked in a low voice. She could feel his body trembling under hers.

"Yes," she managed to say, and then she was rocked by a great wave, and collapsed against him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's easier to talk in the dark.

Trevelyan woke up still tangled in Cassandra. He had no idea what time it was. It seemed dark outside the tent. He had slipped out of his bedroll and they held each other tight. She lay on her back and he was half draped over her, with both her arms around him. He shifted without letting go and her eyes opened. She smiled.

"The morning seems brighter already, no?" she asked, her voice husky with sleep.

"Much," he said. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course," she said. He could feel her hands moving idly across his back.

"What is this?" he asked. "You and me, in these moments. I cannot find a reason or a name for it."

"Sanctuary," she said. "A gift from Andraste."

"I would never have expected this," he told her. "You are such a private person. I feared you would be angry with me, the first night I woke up holding you."

"The bride of the Maker commands us to love one another in her name," she said. "She brought us peace. Do you not feel it?"

"I do," he said.

"There is little place in this world for a woman with ambition and a tender heart," she said. "I have had few enough people I cared for, and even fewer to whom I could demonstrate it. But you and I can share these moments, these mornings in the camp or evenings in your quarters."

"And these moments are sanctuary," he said.

"It has been a long time since I took a lover," she said, "and I am not likely to take another anytime soon. Nor are you, given your responsibilities. Blackwall was right to say that bodies seek comfort. It comforts me to hold you, even though there is nothing to it beyond a simple embrace. You bear a heavy burden and it is nice to feel you relax in my arms. Perhaps we were ordained to aid each other in this way."

"You care for me," he said dubiously.

"I have grown to care for you very deeply, my friend," she said, her hands still stroking his back. "You have proven your worth and your honor at every turn. I believe you care for me as well, or else you would not indulge me."

"With the ropes?" he asked.

"And other things," she said, smiling. "You ask my advice. You trust my judgment. You took my word about Cullen, even over his own."

"I do care for you," he said quietly.

"We care for each other," she said in a warm voice. "I believe that your heart, like mine, has more to give than place to put it. And so I offer what cannot be contained to you."

"And I to you," he said, gazing into her eyes.

"I know how it feels," she said, "not to be the Inquisitor, but to be larger than life, larger than yourself. You feel you must must deny yourself the pleasure of a lover's touch, the comfort of another's affection. Those who stand in such offices cannot devote themselves to families or estates. There is nothing but the cause. The Inquisitor cannot easily fall prey to such earthly concerns as love, no matter what the man who wears the title longs for. The Right Hand of the Divine had also lost that liberty."

"Did you want to love someone?" he asked.

She sighed, but it wasn't a sad sound. "You and I both know my reputation as a person who shuns such pursuits as pointless or decadent. That of itself would drive away most suitors. For the rest, the only romance that would suit me is the sort one finds only in books. I have never lead a life that had time for candles or poetry or flowers. Perhaps I wish for it because it is impossible, and therefore I will never have to deal with the consequences of my dreams coming true."

"Consequences?" he said. "I've never heard love described in such pessimistic terms."

She shrugged in his arms. "What time would I devote to such frivolous pursuits? There is always much to accomplish."

"If flowers and poetry would make you happy, that isn't frivolous," he said.

"Love demands much of a person," she said. "I cannot serve you and my heart at the same time, and I could not bear to ask you to release me."

"I would help you find a way," he offered, although the thought of it froze his blood in his veins.

"Truly, you are a good man," she said, "but fortunately that will not be necessary. You know me. I give all my attention to any task. I fear I would give my whole heart to love, with none left for the Inquisition. I have made my choice."

"I believe you could find room in your heart for both love and the effort to make a better world," he said, "but I will count myself lucky that I don't have to make that choice."

"Why would I need love?" she asked lightly. "I have work that shifts the balance of things, a sword that delivers justice, and a friend who offers me what I need, whether it be a firm rope or a soft word."

"A worthy accounting," he murmured.

"I am happy," she said in a soft voice. "Do not trouble yourself on my account. But my happiness matters little in the grand scheme of things."

"I don't believe it is the Maker's will for you to be alone all your life," he said.

"The Maker seems to see things differently," she said, "or else I would still have parents and a brother. I would not trade the life I have lived for the life I might have lived."

She patted the back of his hip. "Will you ride out today?"

"Yes," he said. "More Venatori. How are there always more Venatori?"

"They are tenacious," she agreed.

"And you?" he asked.

"We will stay until the mines are cleared," she said. "You were right. It is too dangerous to leave the red lyrium and too dangerous to remove it. My Seeker's immunity to the stuff may serve our cause." She stretched beneath him, slipping her arm out from under his waist. He arched his side to make it easier for her, and she turned onto her hip and lay gazing at him. "What luxury I will have, a tent all to myself."

"You won't join the others?" he asked.

"I will be warm enough without them," she said. "And I would not find sanctuary in their arms."

"No?" he asked.

"No," she said firmly. "These are moments that you and I have built together. I do not share the same faith with any of the others. But you ask nothing and everything, and so I give all I can."

Maker, what he would ask of her if he were certain of the answer. But the answer was certainly no. She had as good as told him so, repeatedly, always as she affirmed their connection. He reached for her wrist and hooked his finger through the rope still tied there.

"I look forward to continuing our experiment," he said.

"As do I," she said. "I have learned a great deal about myself. I am never without choices, and so I will never truly be helpless."

"It sounds like we have nothing left to discover," he teased. "Problem solved."

"No!" she said, and blushed. "I find some deeper enjoyment in it that I would not care to give up. If it is all right with you, I would like to continue." She cocked her head at him. "Do you not enjoy it?"

"I do," he said. "I just wanted to see your reaction. I may not be Philippe Lefort, but tying you in knots has a certain appeal."

"Then we agree," she said, reaching up for his hand. He clasped her hand, the anchor glowing between their palms.

"Is there sanctuary there?" he asked. "In the ropes?"

"Yes," she said, "though I cannot explain it. When I am with you, I am not afraid. What is sanctuary if not a place where fear cannot thrive?"

He had no answer to that. His heart was too full of her. He let go of her hand and she tucked it back under her chin.

"What time do you think it is?" he asked.

"I do not know," she said. "Solas' nightlight confuses me."

"At least it will keep you warm in my absence," he said.

"I would rather it was you," she said. "I do not find the same reassurance in this ball of flames. When you lie beside me, flesh and blood, something solid in my arms in a world full of demons and spirits, I feel alive myself."

"There is poetry in your life after all," he said.

She laughed. "Sleep, Max. You have a long ride ahead of you, and I fear you may be delirious." She tucked herself against him. He put his arm around her and held her close, feeling her ribs rise and fall as she breathed. She was right: he felt more alive lying next to her. The soft rhythms of her lulled him. How strange and how lovely that she invigorated and soothed him at once, making him aware of every inch of himself and every possibility his life could hold.

"Do you want me to leave the new book for you?" he asked, pushing back sleep like a heavy blanket.

"No," she said, her voice already a drowsy murmur, "I want you to tell me the story. There will be something to look forward to while I freeze."

"I would find a way to thaw you," he mumbled.

She laughed into his chest, barely audible. "I am certain you would."

They roused themselves to the bustle of the camp and got up without speaking, simply smiling at each other. They had said all they needed to say to each other in the dark. Trevelyan rolled up his bedroll and packed away his things. The scouts had managed to wash his blood-soaked clothes. They were stiff, but dry. He bundled what he would need into his pack and left the rest. He wouldn't need wool stockings or heavy underlayers in the Hissing Wastes. There would be wagons bringing back the dragons' heads. Josephine had explained to him that the nobles needed reassurances, tangible and impressive reassurances of the Inquisition's victories. He took her word for it. There would certainly be room for the rest of his things among the gruesome trophies.

Cassandra, Blackwall, Solas, and the scouts saw him off after breakfast. He slung his extra clothes into the wagon and strapped what he'd take with him to his saddle. He mounted his horse, his muscles complaining only a little.

"A long ride," Blackwall said.

"I won't be alone," Trevelyan told him. "The War Council would never forgive me if I went without a guard." He motioned to the six soldiers reining in their mounts behind him.

"It would be interesting to see Josephine take you on," Blackwall said. "Still, I suppose it's for the best."

"Keep an accurate record if you find any interesting artifacts," Solas said.

Trevelyan nodded. "I'll do my best."

"Maker guide and guard you," Cassandra said, touching the toe of his boot.

"And you," he said, smiling down at her.

"To the person of whom much is asked, much will be given," she said, and murmured so only he could hear, "Do not forget to take a moment for yourself now and then."

"I will," he promised, and knew he'd be thinking of her any spare minute he had. "I'll see you back at Skyhold."

He felt the pull of her as he rode away, as if her heart were a thief's lantern, calling him home. He nudged his horse into a canter and heard his escort follow suit behind him. It was a long hard road to the Hissing Wastes. He might as well not waste time.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Fifteen**

"Do you understand now?" Philippe asked, holding her chin with one hand. "Passion must be matched with passion."

"I understand," she said, her body limp against his.

He gazed into her eyes. "If we make this choice, I will never willingly surrender you. Not to your family. Not to anyone."

"I know," she said.

"We will be sworn to each other," he continued. "Body and soul. There will be ropes, but it will mean more than it did before. It will be a sign of our trust in each other. When you submit to me, I will honor you."

"I know," she said, her voice going high and thready for a moment as she shifted on his lap and the knot nudged at the center of her.

"Madeleine Duvalier," he said, "do you agree to bind yourself to me?"

"Philippe Lefort, I do," she whispered against his lips, and he crushed her to him, and she knew she had never before known what passion was.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian digs too deep.

From endless blowing snow to endless blowing sand: it wasn't much of an upgrade. On the one hand, he was never cold. On the other hand, any snow that had snuck into inconvenient places had melted. He couldn't say the same for sand. He had sand in his hair, sand in his boots, sand in his breeches. There was sand in his food. There was sand in his bedroll. There were a lot of Venatori too, for some reason, and they were worse than the sand. It seemed like every time he found a ruin, there was a Venatori camp full of secrets and traps and cultists, and there wasn't even anything good to salvage. He had a bag full of dwarven plates. Maybe Varric would like them.

At least there weren't any dragons. He thought of Cassandra's whimsical notion of capturing a frost dragon and sending it to the Western Approach and sighed. It felt strange to sleep without her. He was lucky he had a tent to himself, since Cole didn't really sleep, or he might have put his arm around Cole in the middle of the night.

"Something on your mind, boss?" Bull asked a few nights in as they sat with their backs to a sun-warmed rock. There was a fire just large enough to produce light. The desert got cool at night, but they'd camped on a site that got a lot of sun, and the bedrock was still radiating. The scouts were all on the other side of camp, playing cards and laughing.

"Just riddling my way through saving the world," Trevelyan said, holding out his hand for the bottle Dorian had opened. They passed it around. It wasn't what Trevelyan would consider fine whiskey, but it was drinkable.

"That's a big one," Bull said sympathetically.

"Somehow there's always more world to save," Trevelyan said.

"Let's hope so," Dorian said, toasting with the bottle.

"I'd look constipated if I had to be the big hero too," Bull said, nudging Trevelyan, who laughed.

"Too much dragon meat," he suggested.

"No such thing," Bull said, pulling out a piece of the jerky Trevelyan had brought along.

They sat staring out over the sand wastes. The breeze pushed the sand in sleek, hypnotic patterns. The dunes looked like they were melting. It made Trevelyan dizzy to watch it too long. He gazed at the dancing flames instead.

"She shines," Cole said. "Like the snow. Like the sand under the moon. It aches, but she shines."

"She?" Dorian said with interest, looking at Bull. "And who might she be?"

"Don't look at me," Bull said. "I've known a lot of women, but none like sand under the moon."

They all turned to look at Trevelyan. "What?" he said defensively.

"Do we know any women who shine like snow?" Dorian said, tapping a fingertip to his lips.

"I doubt it," Bull said. He grabbed the bottle. "Would it be hot or disgusting if I took a shot and you drank it out of my mouth?"

"Disgusting," Dorian decided. "Surely not Sera. She is quite pale, but I doubt any of us would be considering her. Particularly our good Inquisitor. He isn't her type."

"What if I just gave you a shot?" Bull asked, putting the mouth of the bottle to Dorian's lips. Dorian swallowed obediently.

"Terrible stuff. Leliana's a bit like the moon, as high above us all as she is. Too elevated to dream about. Josephine is gorgeous, but not snowy, I think. Scout Harding? I've always found her quite charming. Surely not that stern surgeon, or any of the researchers. They're all much too wrapped up in their work. You know, we have entirely too many women in the Inquisition who might be the color of sand. We should work on that next time we're recruiting, for any number of reasons."

Bull made a brief "sorry" face at Trevelyan. "Dorian, kadan, don't you think it's time for bed?"

"If our saintly Inquisitor is thinking about a moonlit woman, I have every right to speculate about it," Dorian said indignantly. "And don't think I don't know what you're doing."

"Thinking of someone doesn't mean it's romantic," Trevelyan hedged.

"Hush," Dorian said. "If it weren't romantic, you wouldn't be so loathe to discuss it. We're cousins, you know. If you're planning to add to the family, I should be the first to hear of it. In addition to all that, you're my dearest friend."

"You're cousins?" Bull said in astonishment.

Dorian waved his hand. "Ages ago. Tell me, Trevelyan, do I know this woman? Have I gazed into the night sky and glimpsed her countenance?"

"Just a memory," Trevelyan said, mumbling into the bottle that Bull pushed at him. He hated lying to his friends, but Dorian wasn't the type to let things go. He'd either try to matchmake or he'd make snide comments. At worst, he might burst into laughter at the sight of Cassandra and explain he was only wondering how anyone could be so passionately devoted to her. Trevelyan hoped they were past that stage, but Dorian and Cassandra had not always gotten along, and they could both be cruel.

"Alas," Dorian said with a mournful tone. "I should have known when none of the others provoked a response."

"Not even Leliana or Harding," Bull said, "and we all know that redheads are proof that a divine power loves us and wants us to be horny." He got to his feet, reached down, and swooped Dorian into his arms. "Excuse us. I'm going to go teach this Vint some manners."

"Expect a lot of shouting," Dorian said cheerfully.

"Watch out for the sand," Trevelyan told them. A few drops of whiskey were running down the side of the bottle. He wiped them off with one finger and flicked them into the fire. They popped and sparked.

"You're upset." Cole drew in the sand and wiped the marks away.

"It's not your fault," Trevelyan said.

"Your thoughts were so overwhelming," Cole told him. "I couldn't hear anything else. I didn't mean to tell."

"I know who you are," Trevelyan said. "I don't blame you." He wondered how much Cole knew, and what exactly he'd been thinking of. When he looked up again, Cole was gone, wandered off or winked out. He sighed.

Of course Cole had been able to hear him thinking about Cassandra. He was rarely thinking about anything else, except in the heat of battle, and even then, he often wished for her. The wyvern had been nothing compared to the dragons they had brought down together, but she did loathe the Venatori almost as much as Dorian. Perhaps he should have brought her. They might have bonded. He cringed at the thought of the comments Bull might have made, though. Bull, for all his charms, was rarely as subtle as he seemed to think when it came to innuendo. Perhaps that was on purpose.

He dragged himself up and kicked sand over the fire. His tent seemed enormous with only him in it. The sand was more comfortable than the hard-frozen earth in Emprise du Lion had been, but he swore he could feel the sand working itself into his skin. There wasn't wood to build platforms. Perhaps this was the place for hammocks. But hammocks were made of ropes, and ropes made him think of Cassandra. They would need to peg the nets at each corner and in the middle, or the sleepers would topple into each other. That might work out for himself and Cassandra, if she still felt the same way about comfort and contact and dark quiet moments the next time they met, but the others might complain. He could imagine Vivienne's outrage at being asked to sleep in a net.

He lay in the middle of the tent, missing the shape of Cassandra next to him, even after the days on the road and the days he'd already spent in the Hissing Wastes. What was next for him and Cassandra? He could tie her to the bed he'd ordered, each of her limbs bound separately, so that she was spread-eagled in the center of his mattress. He could leave her there in his room while he went to find something to eat. To make her feel truly vulnerable, he could tease her about sending someone else up to find her there. He could suspend her from something. Hanging supported only by the ropes might make her feel helpless. She had moved beyond her fear, but something about the powerlessness she felt appealed to her. He could find new ways to provide her with that, new configuration of cords and knots.

In the book, Philippe and Madeleine had begun innocently enough, but the situation had changed. The ropes had been a way to restrain Madeleine when she was a prisoner, a way to support her when she was freed to walk the ship, and an accessory to intimacy when she and Philippe had finally confessed their passion for each other. Cassandra could not have ignored that, when she had first thought of asking him to tie her up. It comprised the better part of the book. _The Knotty Sailor_ was, after all, a love story, another example of the titillating literature Cassandra adored, and he had read every word of it to her while she sat in his quarters bound by the cords he had tied. She had said she had no need of that from him. If that was the case, how would their story end? Would they go on forever the way they had begun, chaste restraint? Would he move from chafing the blood back into her legs to trying to make her knees weak?

He hadn't really imagined it would go further than tying her wrists together. He had thought she would find what she needed or not and move on. He had not imagined reading the book to her, hearing his own voice grow husky as two fictional people found in each other something they had not known they had lost. He had not imagined rubbing her feet while she sighed in pleasure or curling against her in the middle of the night or kissing her forehead, half-awake, half-dreaming. He'd certainly never imagined her kissing him and not seeming to regret it.

He would never sleep at this rate. There hadn't been enough whiskey to knock him out. Maybe he could ask Bull to punch him in the face. That might be less painful in the long run. Being in love with Cassandra Pentaghast might have been survivable. Whatever this had become might not be.  
Maker, he needed her. And the worst part was that she needed him too, in some measure. It wasn't the way he wanted her. It never would be. But it was something to consider, alone in an endless wasteland.

No, he couldn't blame Cole for saying anything.

In the end, he had to touch himself to quiet his brain enough to sleep. He tried not to think of her - some strange idea of respect - but she was the world and everything in it, moonlight on sand and all the rest of it, and in the end he gave in and whispered her name into his pillow.

"So this snowy woman," Dorian said the next day as they were hiking up the side of a dune, "do we know her? You said she was a memory, but I don't believe it. You lead an unmemorable life before the Conclave."

"Dorian, leave him alone," Bull grumbled.

"So we do know her," Dorian said. "Interesting."

Trevelyan shrugged. "I won't tell you."

"Everyone says that," Dorian said confidently, "but no one holds out forever. Forbidden love?"

"Isn't all love forbidden when you're the leader of the Inquisition?" Trevelyan asked, squinting into the distance. Somebody really needed to invent something that would make it easier to see in bright sunlight. He'd had the same problem in Emprise du Lion with the snow reflecting all the light. Surely Dagna could solve the problem. He didn't mind the way his skin darkened from its usual medium brown in the glare, but it did hurt his eyes.

"Why would love be forbidden?" Cole asked. "Love is human."

"Not only human," Bull said.

"Love is people," Cole corrected. "Isn't it better to have people than gods?"

"I would say so," Dorian said. "I think the Inquisition could use a little more love."

"Sounds like it's time to schedule an orgy, boss," Bull said.

"Delightful," Dorian commented. "All the intrigue of an Orlesian ball with none of the pretense. And no fucking masks."

"Hey, if you want to wear a fucking mask, I encourage that," Bull joked. "But only if it's got at least one hole in it."

"This is what I deal with," Dorian pretended to complain.

"Love doesn't make sense," Trevelyan said.

"Is it the elf in the garden?" Dorian asked.

Trevelyan shook his head.

"The merchant woman with the mask? Bonny something?"

"No." Trevelyan scanned the horizon again and wished for Venatori.

"Is it Varric's married paramour?" Dorian asked. "That would be complicated."

"Yes," Trevelyan said. "It's her. Congratulations, you've found me out."

"Is it really?" Dorian asked in astonishment. "No, it isn't. You're just trying to throw me off the trail. What's her name, then?"

"Bianca," Trevelyan told him.

"Bianca what?" Dorian asked, and smirked when Trevelyan didn't answer. "I knew you were lying."

"Give up and I won't have to," Trevelyan said.

"Never," Dorian said. "I'm devoted to you, and to discovering every secret you have."

"Tenacious little fucker," Bull said affectionately. "Let him have his own private thoughts."

"Cole?" Dorian asked. "Can you find anything else out for me? Where did he go? He was right here."

"There's your answer," Bull said. "He's not your supernatural accomplice."

"Terribly rude of him," Dorian said without malice.

"Give up, Dorian," Trevelyan said, catching a glimpse of something in the distance. Maybe Venatori. Maybe a rift. Maybe nothing. He drew his daggers anyway.

"Never," Dorian declared, unlimbering his staff.

They found the Venatori and a rift and dealt with them both. They were cleaning up the remains of the demons when there was a scream overhead.

"Boss?" Iron Bull said.

"Yes?" Trevelyan said calmly.

"You know how the scouts said there probably wasn't a dragon around?" Bull asked.

"I do," Trevelyan said.

"There might be a dragon," Bull said with relish, tightening his grip on his weapon.

"Then I suppose we're fighting it," Trevelyan said, and threw down a handful of the powder that would hide him from the dragon's eyes for a little while.

They were underprepared, tired and thirsty, without the potions or supplies they would have brought if they'd known ahead of time. It was a hard fight. Trevelyan couldn't catch his breath in the heat. He thought he might sweat his way through the leather of his breeches. Of course it was a fire dragon. There weren't ice dragons in the Hissing Wastes. That might be a relief. At least Cole had reappeared in the midst of things, his daggers singing with the speed at which he rained down blows on the dragon.  
When at last it fell, they were panting and dizzy. They had to rest in the shade of its body before they could even call the scouts. Trevelyan didn't blame them for the oversight. The dragon was big, but the desert was bigger. He and Dorian and Bull drank their waterskins dry as Cole went to find the scouts and let them know they were needed. They rode back on the wagons, jostling along with the dragon's head, too weary to walk. Even Bull was too tired to talk about the sexual pleasure of killing a dragon, so Trevelyan knew he was exhausted.

There wasn't enough water in the camp for a bath. As thirsty as he was, Trevelyan wasn't sure there was enough water to slake his thirst, much less wash away the aftermath of the fight. Bull and Dorian had to be equally parched. Trevelyan managed to sponge off the worst of the sweat and blood and ash, but he certainly didn't feel clean. The dust seemed to be ground into his skin. He dragged himself out to the fire to eat whatever the scouts had prepared.

"It was a good day, boss," Bull said.

"We got out alive," Trevelyan said, easing himself to the ground. There was a full waterskin next to him. He nodded thanks to Cole and sipped at it a mouthful at a time.

"Like I said," Bull grunted, "a good day."

"Cassandra's going to be pea green with jealousy when she finds out we found a dragon in the Hissing Wastes," Dorian said. "She's always trying to collect them all, as if she's the only dragon slayer there ever was." He touched his fingers to his mouth, which Trevelyan noted wearily was Dorian's equivalent to clapping his hand to his face in shock.

"What?" he asked.

"Maker preserve us," Dorian said. "It's Cassandra."

"Here?" Trevelyan said, craning his head around, not certain whether he was trying to throw Dorian off the track or so tired he actually thought she might have followed him. But all he saw was Cole, standing just outside the circle of firelight, gazing into the desert.

"Your snowy woman," Dorian said. "I hadn't even imagined it. I mean, who could? Despite the smut, she's practically sexless. I've never known her to take interest in anyone."

"Those are the dirtiest ones," Bull smirked.

"You should reconsider," Dorian said. "She'd eat you up like a dragon. Harding, now? A steady and capable partner for our Inquisitor. Well-traveled. Resourceful. I think she likes you already."

"First of all," Trevelyan began, "there is nothing romantic between me and Cassandra. Second, I'm not looking for romance with anyone else at this point. Third, I thought you and Cassandra got along now."

"We get along." Dorian shrugged. "That doesn't mean the thought of the two of you together doesn't bother me."

"Why?" Trevelyan asked, exhaustion catching up with him. "What's so awful about her?"

"Nothing," Bull said, putting a heavy hand on Dorian's shoulder.

"Just what I was going to say," Dorian said, casting a doleful glance at his lover. "That doesn't mean I think you'd make an ideal match."

"It wouldn't be any of our business anyway," Bull said.

"Oh, now, there must be something more," Dorian said, turning to Bull. "For you to get involved in my petty disagreements and not want to speculate further about sex other people might be having, there must be some kernel of truth to all of this, and you had foreknowledge of it, and for that I will not forgive you."

"I thought I loved her," Trevelyan said. His mind was too slow to deal with this tonight. "I told her. She rejected me. We agreed to stay friends. I stumbled into Bull on my way to the nearest drink. He let me cry on his shoulder. End of story."

"I'm surprised you remember that night," Bull rumbled. "You nearly kept up with me drink for drink."

"Hmm," Dorian murmured. "That might be plausible."

"A sad, short story," Trevelyan said, looking up at the stars.

"Poor bastard," Dorian said. "Shall I talk sense into her, when we're all back at Skyhold? Not that she'd take it well, coming from me, but you're quite the catch, you know, and it isn't just the fancy hat."

"Please don't," Trevelyan said. "I don't think she'd like to be reminded of it."

"She thinks of you," Cole said suddenly.

Trevelyan put his face in his hands. It was all too much.

"I'm going to sleep," he said, hefting the waterskin as he stood. "I'll see you in the morning."

As he fell asleep, he could hear the rumble of Bull's voice and the higher notes of Dorian's as they argued.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Sixteen**

Philippe had thought that he knew what passion was, that he understood it to its core, but Madeleine showed him something new. He bound her to the post of his bed and teased her until she cried out, demanding that he satisfy her. Even in submission, she commanded him, and he was delighted to serve her.  
Sometimes he would tie her up and leave her in his cabin after bringing her almost to the point of ecstasy. He ensured she couldn't deal with the problem herself, of course. Sometimes he'd return two or three times before he let her finish. The Caprice sailed on, after all. He was first and foremost the captain of the ship he'd worked half his life for. But following hard on the heels of that, he was her lover, and he never left her for long.

Madeleine was a marvel. She knew what pleasure he derived from seeing and hearing her pleasure. She observed him with a keen eye, seeming to know what he wanted from her without even having to ask. But he did ask, and she answered, and that made it even more intimate somehow.  Together they were incredible, electric, tempestuous as a storm at sea.

"Bind me," she whispered into his ear at the wheel of the ship, and he was immediately so stiff he could have flown the Caprice's pennant from the fly of his trousers. She would hold out her wrists for his rope or have him tie a harness around her hips under her skirt. They pushed each other to their limits and found something more.

He had not imagined this. He could not have. He thanked the Maker every night for the blessing he had received, the woman who slumbered sweetly beside him. She had enjoyed the net, she said, but she felt just as safe with his arm around her.

Passion had made him strong. Love made him invincible.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan returns to Skyhold and finally has a bath.

He was sunburned, windburned, and still parched by the time they got back to Skyhold. Trevelyan wanted a bath, an enormous quantity of mint tea, and to see Cassandra, in any order, although as he thought about it, the tea and Cassandra could be concurrent, so the bath should come first. Perhaps one day the bath and Cassandra might happen at the same time, but he wasn't going to push his luck that far. He'd rather be clean when he saw her. They'd stopped in Val Royeaux on the way back. There were more books in his bag, poetry and novels, and what he had been assured were the most romantic candles in Thedas. He wasn't going to use them. He just liked having them, in case they were ever needed. There might be a warm night some day in Skyhold when he wouldn't want a fire.

He climbed the steps to his quarters, where someone had brought up a steaming tub of water, fresh towels, and a bar of soap. The four poster bed had been assembled in his absence. It looked beautiful and sturdy. He'd gotten new bedclothes as well, and a silk coverlet embroidered with the crest of the Inquisition. He set his bag down wearily and shed his clothes, clambering into the bath. Maker, it felt good. Not as good as the hot spring in Emprise du Lion, but at least he was wet all over. He scrubbed the sand out of his hair and everywhere else, feeling the gritty layer of it settling in the bottom of the tub.

The door to his quarters creaked. He scrambled out of the tub and wrapped a towel around himself.

"Hello?" Cassandra called.

"I'm not dressed," he called back, but she was halfway up the stairs.

"Oh!" she said. She was carrying a tray with what looked like an entire bucket of mint tea and a pot of honey, plus cheese, bread, apples, and dry sausage. "I apologize." She stopped on the stairs and the tray rattled precariously in her hands.

"Come up," he said. "I can change in the closet." He bent to grab a second towel as she came up the stairs.

"You look well," she said.

"I look wet," he told her, beating a retreat. He had to leave the door open because there weren't any lanterns, but if she wanted to look, well, that was all right. He dried himself off and fished in the armoire for fresh clothes. There were so many fiddly little ties and clasps in the outfit someone had decided the Inquisitor should wear, and did he really need so many shiny bits around his thighs? He ought to look into someone making something simpler. He emerged from the closet still toweling his hair. Maybe Harding would braid it for him later. He liked her practical bun. For now, he tied it back with a bit of leather.

Cassandra was sitting on his bed, looking up at the new draperies. She held out a cup of tea.

"I put a little honey in it for you," she said.

"Thank you," he told her, accepting the cup and holding it to his face so he could breathe the steam. "You didn't have to bring this."

"I was passing through the kitchens anyway," she said. "I told them I could take it. There are not enough people to feed everyone as it is."

"Funny how the recruits don't want to peel potatoes for the glory of the Inquisition," he said.

"Yes," she said, "very funny." She poured herself a cup of tea. "How were the Hissing Wastes? I heard you found a dragon after all."

"Bull was thrilled," he said. "I was less thrilled." He sipped at his tea, standing in front of her. "You were right. The desert would be the best place for an ice dragon, if one could be domesticated."

"I told you," she said, her eyes dancing.

He leaned against one of the bedposts. Solid, even when he surreptitiously threw his weight against it. Good. It would need to be.

"This is very luxurious," Cassandra said. "Did you buy it in Val Royeaux?"

"On my way to Emprise du Lion," he told her. "Do you like it?"

"Very much," she said. "It seems to have...possibilities."

"Oh," he said, remembering. "In case Dorian says anything, he thinks I was in love with you and you turned me down."

She stilled. "I see."

He shook his head. "I suppose I was thinking of you, and Cole said something in Dorian's hearing. I swear it wasn't on purpose. I was just looking out at the dunes in the moonlight."

"And you thought of me?" Her shoulders shivered as she laughed. "Sand made you think of me?"

 _Everything makes me think of you_ , he wanted to say. "Maybe it looked like the time you buried yourself in those furs. Just pale lumps." He drank his tea, the heat of it deliciously at odds with the cool freshness of the mint.

She swatted at him gently. "Pale lumps! Of course I would have turned you down, for that."

"Not romantic enough for you?" he teased.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "It is one thing to hear that you were thinking of me as you gazed across the moonlit desert. It is quite another to hear that you recalled how lumpy I was."

"And here I thought that if I told you I was gazing into the moonlight and thinking of you, you'd find that the quickest way to a man's heart is through his ribs," he joked.

"It is no matter," she said. "I am not the type to inspire moonlit reveries."

"That isn't even close to true," he said, refilling his tea. "Did Solas' spell hold up?"

"It did," she said, "but I preferred the previous heat source. One cannot shape a ball of fire to warm one's feet."

"No wonder you sleep above the forge," he said.

"You have discovered all my secrets," she said, smiling.

"All?" he asked, raising one eyebrow. To his surprise, she blushed.

"More than the average," she said.

"An extraordinary privilege," he said. All at once, a wave of fatigue washed over him. He let his back slide down the bedpost and pushed himself over to sit at the edge of the bed.

"Are you terribly exhausted?" she asked sympathetically.

"We rode all the way from the foothills," he said, "I just wanted to be home. It was worth it, even though I'm going to be useless tomorrow. But I want some of this bread and cheese that you were kind enough to bring."

She pushed the tray toward him. He picked at the food. It was good, if plain, and he was hungrier than he'd thought, but also wearier. He washed it down with more tea. He'd made significant progress on the bucket. It would still taste good in the morning, even if it were cold. He shifted the tray to the bedside table that had apparently come with the bed. It would be a good place to store rope. He would have to make more of it.

"If I could stay awake, I'd read to you," he said. "We could discover more about Knight-Captain Simone."

"I could read to you," she offered.

"I would like that," he said. He toed off the soft boots he wore around Skyhold and crawled under the covers. Andraste herself might have made his bed, for all he was concerned. It was soft. It was free of rocks. It was perfect.

"Where is the book?"

"In my pack," he said, face turned into the pillow.

"There are plants in it," she said, ruffling through the pages of the book. "How unusual."

"I found some interesting flowers," he yawned. "I thought you might like to see them."

"That is...very sweet," she said. "I cannot remember the last time someone brought me flowers, even dried ones."

"The herbalist will take them," he said.

"I will keep one," she decided, and flipped through to find the one she liked the best. "Thank you."

"'S nothing," he said. "Long ride with nothing to think about."

"Nothing but how lumpy I make a blanket?" she teased.

"Always on my mind," he said. "Especially camping with Bull and Dorian."

"I hope I was a better companion," she said lightly.

"Soft," he said. "Less moaning. Smell better."

"If I ever leave the Inquisition, I will certainly have you write a letter of commendation for me including those terms," she said.

He reached for her hand, suddenly aching for her touch. "Don't leave."

"I was only joking," she said. "As if I could leave the Inquisition." Her thumb moved softly over the back of his hand. "Max, you're falling asleep."

"Knight-Commander Simone," he insisted, but she closed the book and stretched out beside him.

"Knight-Commander Simone can wait until you're conscious," she told him. "It would not do her justice otherwise."

"Tomorrow," he said. "Knots. If you want."

She laughed. "You certainly need to be awake for that, and yes, I want it." Her voice was husky. "I've missed putting myself in your hands."

His body wanted to respond to the thought of that, but he was too far gone. "Trust," he said, and then he was asleep, the weight of her still beside him.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Seventeen**

Madeleine was in love. She had fought against it every step of the way, bidding her heart to quiet itself even as they satisfied their mutual passions, but she couldn't deny it forever. She loved Philippe Lefort. And that was trouble.

She had always known she would marry in a way that was advantageous to the family. She had been groomed for it since the day she was born.

"Take a lover if you must," her father had told her. "Hell, take five or six, it's almost traditional. But we will choose your match to maximize the fortunes of the Duvaliers and preserve our house. Your child may one day be the heir. We want that child to have every advantage."

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Marriage was a practical matter. But that had been before she'd pledged herself to Philippe Lefort, and as he'd said, there was no turning back.

She couldn't give up Philippe. He had shown her new worlds of possibility, full of pleasure and adventure. She couldn't betray her family's trust, or sever the family line. Her siblings were not suited to be the head of the house. Under their leadership, House Duvalier would falter, slipping into irrelevance, possibly even to the point of the family losing their nobility.

Madeleine Duvalier was well and truly fucked.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra enjoys the new bed.

If every single person in Skyhold didn't want to talk to Trevelyan, he didn't think he'd missed more than three or four. The day had started out well - he'd awoken refreshed, with the dent Cassandra had made still visible in his covers. He wasn't sure how long she'd stayed, but he liked that it had been long enough to leave an impression. Perhaps her feet had been cold. The War Council captured him after breakfast and had him make decisions about what felt like every village in Thedas. He dispatched troops and assigned duties and decided who ought to be in charge where.

"Any time the troops in the encampments aren't busy, they should work on improving the facilities," he said, remembering the chill in Emprise du Lion. "We're too established to be sleeping on the ground."

Cullen made a note. "We'll see what we can do."

"Were you not comfortable, Inquisitor?" Leliana said, and he squinted at her. If anybody knew how comfortably he and Cassandra had shared a tent, it would be his spymaster. He couldn't determine from her tone of voice. She always sounded like she knew a secret.

"I made do," he said, "but if we're going to stick around, we might as well reinforce where we can. I don't intend for the Inquisition to last forever, but I don't think it will be a waste of time to fortify our forces now. Whatever comes after us may need facilities as well."

"I will discuss this with our allies," Josephine said. "We may be able to leverage a few favors."

After he was finished at the war table, Blackwall wanted something, and Krem had ideas for the Chargers, and the minstrel Maryden had heard another rumor. He talked to Dennett about mounts and Harritt and Dagna about weapons, casually dropping another several coils of rope on Dagna's anvil. She put her finger by her nose and winked. Sera had thoughts she apparently needed to share. Hawke had sent news via Varric. Heir offered him a new mission to hone his skills as an assassin. Even Solas wanted to chat after dinner, when all Trevelyan wanted to do was return to his quarters to see if Cassandra would find him there.

Over all of it hung the knowledge that he would have to make a solid plan soon to try to defeat Corypheus, and hard on the heels of that, the question of who would become the next Divine. It wasn't something he'd considered recently, because it was one more thing on top of too much, but either way, he would lose a valuable member of his team. He could envision tying up Cassandra, despite her various crucial roles and impressive titles. He couldn't envision tying up Cassandra the Divine. The Chantry would bind her too tightly to leave space for anything else in her life. There would be no romance, no snowy nights, and no battling back to back. But he couldn't justify refusing her either. She would make an excellent Divine: steeped in tradition but not unwilling to face the future, a strong but open hand. Cassandra was a flame that had never been extinguished. She would light the way to a better day.

She would become someone else.

He was not the same person he had been before the Conclave. He was the Inquisitor, with all that entailed. He could not peel away the layers of ceremony and responsibility to be just Maxwell Trevelyan again, a devout but not divine scion of a minor house of Ostwick. Cassandra had already endured so many incarnations. He was amazed she still knew herself when she looked in the mirror. There were days people called his name and he hesitated before responding.

He nodded his way through the last of Solas' explanations of what exactly the elven artifacts did in relation to the Fade, and then begged off politely.

"You must be tired," Solas said. "I am given to understand that humans tire easily."

"A couple of months on the road and I guess you'd still be fresh as a daisy," Trevelyan said, smothering a yawn that was at least half unfeigned.

"An interesting turn of phrase," Solas said. "I will speak with you later, Inquisitor." He turned away and Trevelyan wandered out of the room. Nobody called for him as he crossed the main hall, so he slipped into his quarters. He really didn't know how Cassandra had come to him all those times without anyone seeing her. He didn't usually associate her with the concept of stealth. Cassandra didn't sneak: she strode boldly, accompanied by the creak of leather and the jingle of metal. But no one had asked him about it. She must have found a way.

She was sitting on the sofa when he reached the top of the stairs, drawing a piece of the rope through her fingers. She held up one of the coils he'd left with Dagna.

"I found this inside your door."

"I thought we might need more for whatever came next," he said.

She tied a series of knots in the end of it. "Filomena." The rope slithered free.

"I'd say thank Dagna," he said, sitting next to her, "but that might be awkward."

"I agree," she said. "It might raise some interesting questions."

"And it would likely get you a hour-long lecture on the mechanics of enchanting," he said, yawning again.

"Did you have a long day?" she asked.

"Not so long that I don't have time for you," he assured her.

"After last night, I feared I might overtax you," she said ruefully, smirking a little.

"I paced myself today," he said. "Couldn't disappoint you a second time."

"I was not disappointed," she said, and then paused. "Entirely."

"Well then, what is the lady's pleasure?" he asked. It seemed a comfort, to follow the same routine. He hadn't intended to create a passphrase, or whatever it might be, but it moved them from one headspace to another.

"Did you purchase that lovely bed for some purpose?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"I did," he said.

"Then let us put it to use," she said, handing him the rope.

"After you," he said, slipping his arm around her and pushing her gently along. She relaxed into his touch and let him guide her to the bed, which surprised him. There was an aspect of control to the ropes, as Bull had shown him, and as _The Knotty Sailor_ had detailed, but he hadn't thought that appealed to her as much as the rest of it. She sat on the edge of the bed. He took one of the new coils of rope and cut it in four pieces as she watched. He lashed one end of one of the sections around her wrist and the other around the bedpost.

"Move into the center," he said, kneeling beside her and checking the tension in the rope as she did. It seemed loose enough that she would be able to move if she were uncomfortable, but taut enough to prevent her from escaping. She watched him work her eyes half-lidded. He put the tips of his middle three fingers to her sternum, well above her breasts, and questioned her with his eyes. She nodded almost imperceptibly. He pushed gently at her chest with his fingertips until she was lying down. She caught her breath.

"All right?" he asked.

"I didn't know you had it in you," she murmured. "You've always been so tender."

"If it's what you want, I can find it in myself," he teased.

"I didn't mind it," she said. "You may try what you like. I trust you."

"You know your magic word," he said, taking her other wrist in his hand and tying it to the opposite bedpost. "I'll stop any time you want. If I overstep my boundaries, you can cut my head off."

"I don't think that will be necessary," she said with a smile. "Unless you harbor a secret yearning to strip me down and tickle me all over with feathers. I might behead you for that."

"Good to know that's off the table," he said. "Is it the stripping down or the feathers that bothers you?"

"The tickling," she said.

"I see," he said.

"It does not seem that taking my clothes off is a necessary part of this," she said as he put his hand on her knee, passing his palm down her shin to her ankle. If she was as ticklish as she said, his life might depend on not startling her. But she didn't seem to mind the rope around her ankle, and he'd rubbed her feet so many times before. Maybe it was only feathers. He hitched the rope and doublechecked his knots.

"There may be configurations later where a simpler outfit might be easier to work with," he said. She was dressed in her usual training wear, minus the armor. "The rope might snag on all these buckles." He moved to the other side of the bed and tied off her other ankle. "That pretty chest harness you found in the book, for example. I'm not sure I could tie that over all of this."

"I have other shirts," she said, testing her bonds. She seemed satisfied by her range of motion. He had given her a few inches of slack, enough that she wouldn't feel trapped, just confined. "Thinner shirts."

"Are you comfortable?" he asked.

"Oh yes," she told him. "It feels very different to have each limb bound separately, and especially to be so...open. Even when my legs were restrained, I could protect and cover myself. Now I have no recourse."

"Protect yourself from me?" he asked.

"No," she said immediately, "I need no protection from you. It is an instinct, developed over years of soldier's work."

He ran a finger from her wrist to the inside of her elbow, catching on her straps. "So now that you're helpless, what shall I do with you? Further adventures of Knight-Captain Simone? The spur? Shall I drop a handful of snow on your stomach and watch you squirm?"

She hissed between her teeth at the thought. "Perhaps we should begin with Knight-Captain Simone. We cannot run through every pleasure all at once."

"There are pleasures to come after this," he assured her. "If you don't like snow, there's candle wax for heat. I could roll marbles across your ribs. I could make you hold your stomach firm while I stack your novels on your belly. I could draw elven runes on your back with my finger while you lie face-down. I could suspend you and set you rocking. I could tie you to the bedpost and subject you to the raunchiest poetry Sera can find."

She licked her lips as she looked at him. "You have given this a lot of thought."

"I had a lot of time on my hands recently," he said. "On the back of a horse. In the desert. On the back of a horse again."

"And you devoted it all to me?" she teased.

"I have devoted all my spare time to you these past months," he said, with more passion than he intended. "It is a consuming pastime."

"I sound like quite the imposition," she said warmly.

"On the contrary," he said, "you're quite the diversion."

"Do I distract you, Inquisitor?" she asked, in a tone he would have considered coquettish from any other woman. He suspected that wasn't her intent. It was just the way her voice affected him these days.

"Cassandra, the thought of you tied to a bed would distract a statue," he said. "Or even Solas."

"I will take that as a compliment," she said.

He looked at her, pale skin and dark hair against the deep red silk of his blankets, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed. "I intended it to be one."

"Is that your next form of torment?" she asked. "Restrain me and then praise me to death?"

"I hadn't considered it before," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, "but if the lady pleases. It would certainly please me."

"You seem very confident in your ability to find a ready supply of things to compliment," she said.

"I've made an extensive study of the subject," he told her. "I have categories of praiseworthy qualities."

"I dare not ask," she said, suppressing a laugh, but her mouth curved up at the corners in a way he might describe as smug.

"Filomena," he said, and instead of being tied to his bed, she was just sprawled on it. A rope slithered to the floor.

"Generally you ask first," she said, sitting up and rolling her wrists.

"I didn't want to get distracted," he said. "We might have gone on all night." He stretched to get the salve from the table and reached for her hand. She held her wrists out, not meek but pliable, still in the relaxed state that the ropes induced in her.

"Would that we could," she said.

"One day," he said, reveling in the softness of her skin. Maker, even just soothing the marks the ropes made set his whole body tingling. He rubbed his thumb over the slight indentations as if his touch could smooth them.

"One day," she said, and it sounded like a promise.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Eighteen**

Madeleine was avoiding him. It wasn't easy in the confines of the ship. The Caprice was not a large vessel, and their cabins were close together. She had even begun wearing clothes that didn't require help to get in or out of. He wasn't sure which crew member had lent them to her, but she looked very fetching in the breeches and the loose shirt, her hair bound back with a scarf.

Only days ago, they had been of one mind, rigged together with the ropes he tied. Now he was adrift. He didn't know what had changed. They had shared a mutual passion. To him, that meant they were sworn to each other. He had thought she understood that. He had bedded women in the past, even romanced them, but he had never promised his passion the way he had done with Madeleine. She had enjoyed herself. He was certain of that. The look in her eyes had seemed to indicate that she felt the same way.

Now she passed him on the deck and her gaze landed miles away, on some landmark he couldn't see.

They would put into port soon, to pick up the next cargo. He wondered if she would find her way off the ship. He wouldn't stop her if she wanted to go. He had every confidence she could defend herself from the House of Repose.

Philippe had always thought he would fight for a woman like Madeleine. But he wouldn't fight against her.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get cold and then heat up.

Cassandra was bound to his bed again. He sat on the sofa, reading to her about Knight-Captain Simone and occasionally walking to the bed to drop a sliver of snow on her stomach, where he'd pulled up all her layers of clothing with her permission to reveal pale skin marked with scars and bruises. He could imagine reading the history of her body and the intensity of her training sessions. He set the book on the couch and picked up the ceramic bowl he'd filled with snow earlier.

"Ah!" Cassandra protested as he let a fingerful of half-melted snow splash onto her belly.

"You said it sounded interesting," he reminded her, watching water run into her navel and down the sides of her hips. She wriggled on the towel he'd had her lie on.

"It did," she said in exasperation. "Now it just sounds cold and wet."

He dropped another fingerful and she hissed. "Do you feel helpless?"

"I could spit at you," she offered. "If you come closer, I could knee you."

"I should take the slack out of your rope if you're going to try to knee me," he said. "The important thing is that you're not afraid."

"I'm not afraid," she said immediately. "I am very unhappy and plotting my revenge."

"You asked for this," he said. "Are you going to tie me up and pour snow down my neck?"

"Down your trousers," she said. "I've been watching you tie these knots for months. I think I could manage."

"You're welcome to try," he said, scooping the last sloppy fistful of snow out of the bowl and letting it trickle onto her skin as she squirmed and yelped. "I think you like it."

"Why would I like it?" she sputtered.

"You like having something to be angry about," he said. "Something to push against."

"I will push you next," she muttered. "Onto this bed and into these ropes."

He laughed. "Are you flirting with me, Lady Seeker?"

She blushed. "Why would I do that? Cannot I not tease my friend?"

"You tell me," he said, upending the bowl so that drops of icy water pattered down over her. "It seems you suddenly have a lot of ideas."

"You of all people should know I despise being cold and wet," she said.

"Ah yes," he said. "Emprise du Lion. I seem to recall some damp feet and icy toes."

"As for the supposed...flirting." She said the word quickly as if she could make it disappear into the air. "I find others misinterpret relaxation for seduction. Flirting suggests expectations I do not harbor."

"In that case, I'm not sure you've been doing seduction right," he said.

"On the contrary," she told him. "Afterwards, I was very relaxed."

He chuckled. "For a woman who claims not to have a ready wit, you do all right."

"Perhaps the cold has sharpened my reflexes." She shivered exaggeratedly. More drops of water slid down her sides. He watched their progress, wishing his fingers could follow. Her skin was prickled into gooseflesh. He imagined its texture under his hands.

"We'll try the wax next time," he offered. "In the meantime, the only solution I can offer you is to dry you off. Unless…."

"Unless?" she prompted.

He took another towel and soaked up the water that pooled in her navel, rubbing the fabric briskly over her skin. She winced.

"It stings."

"I'm sure it does," he said. He went to the fireplace and crouched on the hearth, holding his palms close to the flames. When they were almost unbearably hot, he pressed them together and walked back to the bed. "May I touch you?"

"You may," she said, watching him closely, and he knelt next to her and flattened his hands over the chilly skin of her stomach. With the heels of his hands together at the center of her belly, his fingertips nearly reached her waist. Her skin was still damp and very soft.

"Oh!" she said, straining against his touch for a moment and then relaxing. He felt her muscles tensing and releasing under his fingers. "That's better."

"I thought it might be," he said quietly. Maker, it was hard to focus with his hands actually on her. Did she feel the same heat rising in her body, or was it only the residual warmth of the fire?

"I told you months ago," she said. "If the Inquisition ever ends, I will engage you as my personal masseuse."

"That will require a great deal more nudity than our current arrangement," he pointed out.

She shrugged, the movement limited a little by the ropes. "And a great deal more liniment and oils. I am certain we could come to a mutually satisfactory solution. Take care that you do not lose your hands to a dragonling."

"That might end my career before it began," he agreed.

"What a shame it would be," she said. "A prodigy cut off in his prime. I would much prefer you kept your hands where they are."

"On your body?" he teased.

"That seems to be where they do the most good," she said. "Will you do it again? It feels as if my hips are still half-frozen." She fixed him with an accusatory eye. "Someone let snow get into my breeches."

"Just trying to inspire you in your thoughts of revenge," he said, lifting his hands from her stomach. He warmed them by the fire again and came back, settling them over her hips this time. The leather of her breeches was damp, but not as wet as she'd implied. She made a small contented noise and sank deeper into the bed.

"So what do you think about Knight-Captain Simone?" he asked to distract himself. He could move his hands just a little higher and find her skin again, or a little lower and touch her thighs.

"The writer is not as deft as Varric," she said, her hips rising softly into his palms. "But I enjoy her dedication to her work. I find her poet charming."

"Are you going to leave us for a poet?" he teased.

"That depends on the caliber of his work, I suppose," she said. "And at this point, the strength of your knots." She strained against them, her body tensing under his touch, sending a thrill through him. She collapsed again into the covers, a satisfied smile on her face. "There are no poets in my future this evening."

"I can see we'll need to keep an eye on you if we visit any archives," he said.

"He would have to be a great poet," she said solemnly. "I will not abandon the Inquisition for anything less than a master."

"What a relief," he said.

"Is there more snow?" she asked.

"I thought you didn't like being cold and wet," he reminded her.

"I like what happens after," she said. "Is there more?"

"I'll get some," he said, and went to the balcony. It had snowed late the night before, and though somehow it always melted in the courtyard, the railings of his balcony were still mounded with it. He scooped some into the bowl. For a moment, he let the brisk air cool his face. If only he could make it cool the rest of him. His desire was moderately evident, though she never seemed to notice. He gazed out at the mountains. Maker, Skyhold was beautiful. How lucky he had been to endure the things that he had gone through and end up here, in this place, sharing this moment with this woman. He turned and carried the bowl of snow back to the bed. Cassandra was lying quietly in the ropes, but as he sat down next to her, she surged up and snatched the bowl out of his grasp. Too late, he noticed the ropes lying slack, the knots all undone. She flung her body against his, struggling with him, and managed to lift his tunic and get snow down his breeches, just as she'd promised.

"Andraste's sweet ass!" he swore, bucking under her weight as she laughed. At least the cold had dimmed his desire. Ice prickling at his balls was not arousing. Cassandra lying on top of him was, but at least she was less likely to notice his interest with his pants full of snow. The thick layer of it both disguised and alleviated the situation.

"You should not have given me a magic word," she told him cheerfully, her hand still half down his pants. Her stomach was pressed to his, skin against skin where his tunic was pulled up. Maker, he wanted to have all of him bare against all of her, but that was a dangerous thought.

"You asked for that!" he protested, still struggling under her. She had caught his wrists in her other hand and held them over his head. Her grasp was strong, as he'd expected. "I didn't!"

"Still, it feels just," she said, her voice thoughtful and playful at the same time. "A taste of your own medicine."

He rolled out from under her and went to the hearth, scooping snow out of his breeches with his back to her. "Agh, Maker, this is unpleasant. For someone who doesn't like to be wet and cold, you certainly don't have qualms about inflicting the same situation on others."

She was sprawled on the bed smoothing her shirt down over her stomach when he looked over his shoulder. She smiled like the cat in the cream. "Poor Max. And no warm hands to soothe you."

He grumbled under his breath. "Only my own, and that will have to wait until you're gone."

"I am certain you are well-practiced," she teased.

At last he was no more than clammy, the last slivers of ice melting and soaking into his smallclothes. He turned back to her. "Seriously, Cassandra, have you been drinking? You seem very...relaxed."

"It is the ropes," she said, spreading her hands in puzzlement. "In any case, I am not the prudish figure you imagine, but the ropes are a component. There is something intoxicating about it. Under your mastery, I feel emboldened."

"You and Madeleine Duvalier," he said wryly.

"Just so," she said, thoughtful again. "It is empowering, to have you devote yourself to me so thoroughly. How rare it is for anything or anyone to have your total attention, and yet, you spend hours tending to my slightest discomfort, as solicitous as anyone might desire."

"Having you in my care is an honor," he said. "All your strength and independence, and you still put yourself in my hands. It's humbling."

"I told you it was a good book," she said, smiling, and he laughed.

"You were right," he said. "It's a rare book that changes my life, and yet."

"The literature I enjoy has its merits," she said in a smug voice.

"I'm not sure this is its intended use," he said, "but I'm enjoying it nonetheless."

"You and I enjoy all the benefits of the ropes and none of the difficulties of Philippe and Madeleine's relationship," she said.

"Yes, I haven't kidnapped you," he said. "As far as I know, you have no betrothed to demand you return to Nevarra."

"I was referring to their intimate relations," she said. "Their passion for each other was controllable until they became intimate. When they gave into their desires, they lost the clarity of their original purpose."

"That is definitely beyond the scope of our current arrangement," he said, purposefully facing the fire again. "Although the ropes played a large part in that as well."

"Yes," she said thoughtfully. "I cannot deny my interest in such uses. If I ever take a lover again, perhaps they will indulge my curiosity."

He made a noise intended to be noncommittal, though he feared it sounded more like a muffled moan, and changed the subject. "I thought you liked the fact that their passion was so immense that it overwhelmed them. It's romantic."

"I very much do," she assured him. "What a gift, to experience a love so powerful. But you must admit it complicated matters. Meanwhile, you and I share the pleasures of our arrangement, as you call it, and are still able to perform our duties without distraction."

"You aren't distracted by this?" he asked.

"Well," she said, looking at her hands, a flush rising in her cheeks, "from time to time, in moments when I am not otherwise occupied."

"I'm glad I'm not alone," he teased.

"No," she said. "We are together." She toyed with the rope bracelet.

"What distracts you?" he asked gently.

"Oh, I suppose it is the thought of surrender without consequences," she said after a moment. "The ability to lay down our burdens together for a little while. Neither of us has the leisure to pursue another relationship."

"Is that in the rules somewhere?" he asked.

"True passion overmasters," she said, looking up at him. "To give in means one has no energy to devote to other causes. Perhaps when the threat of Corypheus is ended, there will be time for such things. Until then, we cannot afford to lose focus. Thedas cannot spare us."

"Passion and dedication can't be balanced?" he asked.

"And do justice both?" She shook her head. "I have rarely seen it accomplished."

"If one day someone swept you off your feet, what would you do then?" His breeches were finally dry. He stepped away from the fire.

"Kick until they set me down," she said. "Unless the moment was right."

"And if it were?" he asked.

"Surrender," she said. "And hope it was the right choice."

He nodded. "I'm sure it would be. You have a gift for making the right choice?"

"Do I?" she asked, something unidentifiable in her voice. She rose before he could reply. "I enjoyed this evening very much."

"I'll find a candle that doesn't burn too hot," he said. "Or an interesting surprise."

"I trust your ingenuity," she said with a smile. "Good night."

"Sleep well," he said.

"I am certain I will," she said, starting down the stairs.

He flung himself onto the bed and draped the wet towel over his hot face. He hadn't imagined any of this when they had begun: her gentle offer of sanctuary, her pointed teasing, the depth of her loyalty and her thoughtfulness. He wasn't certain how much longer he could bear only touching her a little, only holding her in the cold. Every night he was overmastered a little more. Maybe she was right and passion and duty couldn't coexist.

When he touched himself, he wondered if she was imagining him doing it, or if she was touching herself, thinking of the warmth of his hands.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Nineteen**

He caught up with her in the corridor by accident: she was rounding the corner and nearly bounced off his chest. He caught her by the shoulders.

"Madeleine," he said roughly, too overcome to observe protocol and use her title in public, "we can't carry on this way."

"We can't carry on at all," she said in a cold voice, trying to push past him. He pinned her to the wall.

"Talk to me," he said. "Tell me what changed."

"If you want a confession, you'll have to tie me up," she said. "And I think you haven't got the fortitude. Release me." Command rang in her words. He stepped back.

It looked almost as if there were tears in her eyes as she stormed away, but that couldn't be.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone interrupts.

As it turned out, Cassandra enjoyed the wax. Trevelyan kept a bowl of snow on hand just in case, but the candles he'd bought in Val Royeaux seemed to melt at a low enough temperature that the wax didn't burn her when he dripped it onto her skin. She was lying on her stomach with her back mostly bare. He tipped the candle and drew slow patterns up and down the long muscles.

"Where did you get candles that smell so nice?" she asked dreamily.

"Val Royeaux," he said. "I bought them with you in mind, in case it was too warm for a fire. They seemed the most appropriate lighting for our activities."

She laughed. "You brought me flowers. You brought me candles. Did you bring me a book of poetry?"

"Actually, yes." He dripped more wax onto her back and watched it coat her skin. She hummed appreciatively. "I was saving it for a special occasion. Perhaps your birthday."

"Do you know when my birthday is?" she asked.

"I thought you might tell me," he said. He peeled a section of wax from her back and set it in another bowl. It was equally enjoyable to apply the wax and to remove it. Her skin was pink from the heat and smelled like lavender and other herbs. She sighed happily as he slipped his fingertip under the wax to loosen it.

"I think I will let you guess," she said.

"Then I suppose I'll have to celebrate every day until I find the right one," he told her.

She chuckled into the pillow. "You are going to make some woman very happy someday, when this is all over."

"Am I not making a woman very happy now?" he asked.

"Of course," she said, "but it is different."

"Then I suppose I'll have to stop bringing you candles and flowers and poetry," he said.

"Don't be foolish," she said. "It keeps you in practice. It's good for you."

"As long as it's good for you," he said, and poured more wax over the skin he'd revealed. She nearly purred. He bit his lip, glad she had her eyes closed and couldn't see the expression on his face. He let the wax pool in the small of her back, just above the edge of her breeches, and tried not to imagine rubbing his face all over her. His beard would be an excellent new sensation, after all, to accompany the cold, the heat, and the prick of the spur. It was silky from some angles and harsh from others. She might enjoy it. He would certainly enjoy it, especially the more sensitive areas. He could irritate her skin and then soothe it with his lips and perhaps his tongue. He shook himself out of reverie. One day he might make a woman happy, but Cassandra made it clear early and often that it wouldn't be her.

He had burned through about half the candle. It wasn't terribly large to begin with - a romantic candle would surely extinguish itself at an opportune moment, or would it burn all night, extending the tryst? - but he didn't want to spend it all at once. He blew it out, set it on the bedside table, and busied himself peeling the wax off her back. Most of it was still slightly warm and pliable, the work of the heat of her skin. He rolled it off in strips and used the edges of the balls he made to get the last crumbs. When she was as free of wax as he could make her, he took the salve he used for her wrists and rubbed it over her back.

"Oh, _Max_ ," she said in a voice that melted his insides and sent all his blood south.

"I know," he said. "When this is over, I'll be your masseuse."

"For this, I might retire early," she said. "I would much rather endure this than battle demons all day."

His fingers slid over her ribs and down her sides and she shivered. "This isn't even the full service," he said.

"How do I obtain the full service?" she asked.

"I'd have to straddle you," he told her, his mouth dry at the thought.

"I will risk it," she decided. "Let me experience all you have to offer."

He had nothing to say to that, but he shifted on the bed so that he could swing his knee over her hip and brace himself, hovering over her ass. With his new leverage, he could plow his thumbs over her muscles, digging into the tight places in her muscles. She groaned with pleasure underneath him and he stifled a noise of his own.

"When did you learn to do this and why haven't you shown me before?" she asked.

"There isn't really a convenient moment," he said, "and as I told you last night, it really works better the less clothing you have on. I didn't want you to gut me for my insolence."

"If I had known this would be the result, I would have taken off all my clothes the first time we shared a tent," she said. "By the light of Andraste, your hands are incredible."

"You're still wearing most of your clothes," he pointed out.

"I cannot remove them at the moment," she said. "I am restrained."

"True," he said. His thumbs grazed her breast band and he slid his hands back down, away from the temptation.

"You might remove them," she mused, interrupted by another moan, "but I fear to ask too much of you."

"That seems outside our arrangement," he hedged.

"Ah well," she sighed. "Perhaps for my birthday."

"Hmm," he said. He concentrated on the feel of her skin. The salve made her slick. His hands passed over her with little resistance. He mapped the places where her muscles met, where her bones curved toward the surface of her. If this was all he ever got to do for her in terms of catering to her pleasure, it was all right. He could get by on just this taste of her, although his treacherous mind supplied a ready clamor of scenarios about what it would be like to really taste her. He gripped her hips more firmly with his knees as he dug his thumbs into the small of her back and she sighed his name in a tone of unmistakable delight.

The outer door to his quarters opened with a very distinctive creak, which he had always liked, because it made it easy to tell when someone was coming to call, as they were apparently doing at this moment.

"Filomena," he hissed, scrambling off Cassandra, and the ropes untied themselves. He grabbed them and stuffed them messily in the cabinet of the bedside table as Cassandra roused.

"Hmm?" she said.

"Someone's coming," he whispered, adjusting his clothing. She pulled down the layers that were bunched just under her breasts and rolled off the bed. Trevelyan smoothed the covers and dove to join Cassandra on the sofa just as someone knocked at the inner door.

"Inquisitor?" Josephine called.

Cassandra fluffed her hair with her fingers, her eyes still dreamy but bright. Trevelyan sighed for the lost opportunity. Still, he wouldn't have been able to bear touching her for much longer when he couldn't touch all of her. Josephine's arrival was something of a mercy.

"Come in," he said.

"Thank you," she said, opening the door. "How nice it smells in here, Inquisitor. Perhaps the candles you purchased in Val Royeaux? I received a letter I thought you might want to read right away, from a noble near the border with Tevinter. It says...oh!" She had climbed into view. "Am I interrupting?"

"Not at all," Cassandra said, and Trevelyan was certain that Josephine noted her flushed face and too-quick breath. "We were discussing a book that the Inquisitor purchased recently. He knows I am interested in literature."

"I see," Josephine said dubiously, no doubt well aware of the sort of literature Cassandra was usually interested in. "Anything I might like?"

"I think so," Trevelyan said, holding up _A Verse From The Heart_. "I'll lend it to you when I'm finished. What was in the letter?"

"More Venatori, I'm afraid," Josephine said. "They have tried to claim an old castle belonging to the noble's family and set it up as a stronghold for Corypheus, capital of a new empire. They have even put up a banner. It is shockingly poorly rendered."

Trevelyan sighed. "I suppose we'll have to take care of that."

"The sooner the better," Josephine said apologetically. "The enthusiasm of the Venatori may be contagious. If people believe that Corypheus' empire is taking shape, more will likely flock to join those already present, either because they are dedicated to his cause or simply curious. The best course of action is to eradicate the Venatori and retake the castle. The noble has troops to lend."

"But no quarters, I assume?" Trevelyan said.

Josephine shrugged. "I do not believe there are suitable lodgings anywhere near the castle in question."

"Send Harding ahead tonight, if she's fit for duty," Trevelyan said. "We'll set out tomorrow. That will at least give the scouts some time to establish something that looks like a camp."

"Do we know what the climate is like there?" Cassandra asked.

Josephine pondered a moment. "I believe at this time of year, it will be no more than rainy. Although it will be cold, it is unlikely to snow."

"At least on the Storm Coast, one fights in warm rain," Cassandra said, shaking her head. "I do not look forward to rusting armor."

"You don't have to come," Trevelyan said. "I might take someone else."

Cassandra snorted. "Of course I'm coming. Nothing cows a noble like a princess. We may yet talk them into giving us somewhere dry to sleep."

Josephine smiled. "It sounds like you are shaping a plan already. I will leave you to it. The War Council will meet in the morning at your convenience, Inquisitor."

"Bright and early," Trevelyan acknowledged. Josephine handed him the letter.

"Good night," she said. "I do hope you get some rest before you have to set out."

"Good night," Cassandra said firmly. Trevelyan caught the ghost of a smile on Josephine's face as she turned away.

"Well," he said after both doors had opened and shut, "that was interesting."

"Yes," Cassandra said, gazing down the stairs. "Andraste knows what she thinks."

"She thinks we've founded a book club," Trevelyan offered.

"No," Cassandra said, looking at him with the same ghost of a smile. "I know what she thinks we were doing as well as you do, and I assume she is astonished that we were both fully clothed. What I do not know is her opinion of the situation."

"She seemed pleasant about it," he said. "But she also seemed pleasant about the contract on her life, so maybe I'm not the best judge of her moods."

"I'm sure she's planning to use the knowledge she thinks she has to some advantage," Cassandra said without rancor. "Still, it might be better that she thinks we are intimate than that she knows the truth."

Trevelyan blew out a breath. "I hear that a lot."

Cassandra tilted her head. "Do you? Am I on a rotating schedule with the rest of your willing participants?"

"You know you're not," he said, tapping a finger on her knee. "I was only teasing."

"If Josephine thinks that we are lovers, Leliana will soon believe so as well," Cassandra said.

"She may already," Trevelyan told her. "Something she said at the war table sounded suspicious."

Cassandra waved that off. "Leliana can make 'pass the porridge' sound suspicious. But now she will certainly think that we have been keeping a secret from her. I only hope she is satisfied and will dig no deeper."

"Are you ashamed of what we do?" he asked.

"Not at all," she said fiercely. "It is nothing at all to be ashamed of, but it is no one else's business."

He spread his hands. "I agree."

"Why should we not have the right to do as we like in our free time? Our habits are healthier than those of many others."

"Cassandra, I agree," he said. "You don't have to justify any of this to me. I'm just as much a part of it as you are."

She quieted. "You are right," she said. "I am fighting a straw man. As usual." Her grin was crooked.

"So that's Bull, Dorian, Cole, Josephine, and Leliana who think or know that something is happening or has happened," he said. "Although only Bull and probably Cole know what we're actually doing."

She sighed. "I would rather we not make a banner and fly it from the castle walls."

He took her hand. "All of them can keep a secret, except for Cole, and hardly anyone pays attention to him, even now."

"Perhaps we should become lovers to throw them off the scent," Cassandra teased, and he found he had nothing to say to that. "Max, I was only joking."

"I know," he said. He laughed, but it sounded rusty.

"Is the thought so awful?" she asked. He thought he caught the briefest glint of hurt in her eyes. "You cannot even imagine it?"

"That isn't it at all," he told her, and something in his voice must have warned her off, because her expression turned serious.

"I won't tease you about it any more," she said, squeezing his hand. "I hope I have not hit a nerve."

"A memory, that's all," he said, hoping she couldn't see through his half-truth. Let her believe he was thinking of a past lover when he was thinking instead of the morning she'd kissed him. He had thought it a sweet moment. Evidently it was a joke, to her.

She released his hand, rose from the couch, and went to the bedside table to fetch one of the pieces of rope. "I have made a study of your knots," she said. "May I try to tie your wrists?"

"You may," he said, and she knelt before him, concentrating on winding the rope just so. He watched her: the slow blink of her lashes, the steady rise of her chest, the way she licked her lips as she focused. She was, as always, exceptionally beautiful. Even the livid slashes of the scars across her cheeks only accentuated her loveliness. She had a few false starts with her knots, but managed to restrain his wrists at last. He tugged at the bindings to show her how sturdy she had made them. Her eyes lit up with triumph. Maker, how he loved to see her look so joyous. He could have kissed her. He could have slain a dragon for her. He could have scoured the whole of the Hissing Wastes for a grain of sand that would please her, if it would mean he put that look on her face.

"Good night, Max," she said. She leaned forward, and before he could react, she kissed his cheek and left him on the sofa, his wrists still bound.

He sighed as the door closed behind her. "Filomena," he said, and the rope fell to the floor. He picked it up and ran it through his hands. He'd take Bull and Dorian to the Venatori stronghold. Dorian hated the bastards and he fought better with Bull at his side, just as Trevelyan fought best with Cassandra. That kept the circle of those who knew or suspected anything about the two of them small. He could bring rope. There wouldn't be any trouble about the tents.

Theoretically, everything would work out perfectly.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Twenty**

He was waiting when she walked into her cabin, sitting on her bunk, a coil of rope in his hand. She turned on her heel and tried to walk out, but he reached across the narrow space and grabbed a handful of her loose shirt, hauling her close.

"If this is what it takes to get you to speak to me," he said, whipping the rope around her waist and tightening it down, "then this is what I'll do."

"And you think this will work?" she challenged, although she didn't fight as he bound her arms to her sides.

"It's all I have," he said softly, and her heart ran aground on the hurt in his voice. She stiffened. She couldn't back down now. Her father had the trip itinerary. He would surely tell whatever family he had made arrangements with, most likely Benoit Montvallée, the rich and ruthless heir of a rich and ruthless house. It wouldn't matter if she told them she was in love with Philippe. That really only made it more likely that the Montvallées (or whatever family she was to marry into) would hire an assassin to kill him, or would hire Philippe himself and send him and his crew to the farthest corners of the ocean. It might be common to take a lover, but that didn't mean a spouse wouldn't try to interfere with their partner's affairs.

The only way to keep Philippe safe was not to love him. The only way to make herself happy was to give herself to him. She could make it all work, in time, but only if she resisted him now, although that might break his heart, and then he might come to loathe her.

The wide ocean rocked the Caprice under them and Madeleine Duvalier shook her head and gave in, for now, to her own selfish desires.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan and Cassandra have a lot to think about.

Trevelyan met with the War Council first thing, carrying his warm sausage roll and his tea into the room. The others looked immaculate, as usual, and seemed to have already eaten. He ate his roll while they ran through the details of the situation.

"The castle is half-ruined," Cullen explained. "That means they have less to defend, but more hidey-holes. If you took a trebuchet, you could probably take out at least half of it."

"At which point, there would be no way to reclaim the castle," Leliana said. "Which, at the moment, is still a perfectly salvageable structure with mostly cosmetic or repairable damage, much like Skyhold when we took it over."

"Destroy the castle and we will destroy our friendship with the noble," Josephine warned.

"Besides, it has strategic value," Leliana said. "Even if it appears abandoned."

Trevelyan swallowed the last of his roll. "I'm not dragging a trebuchet through the mud. That sounds like a way to injure our mounts."

"Fair enough," Cullen said. "Who are you taking with you?"

"Dorian and Bull," Trevelyan said, taking a swallow of tea. "And Cassandra." He studiously ignored any look that might have passed between Josephine and Leliana. "As she pointed out when Josephine first told me about the mission, sometimes a noble connection can be leveraged."

"The castle is in Nevarra," Josephine said. "I think you have made excellent choices."

"Thank you," Trevelyan said gruffly. "We'll be gone by noon."

"I'll let Dennett know," Cullen said, and they adjourned. Trevelyan was glad that Josephine didn't try to catch his eye. He didn't want to talk about it. He was sure Josie would know immediately that he was deeply, desperately in love with Cassandra if he tried to say anything. She was perceptive and compassionate in equal measure, and while that usually worked to his advantage, it was less than ideal in regards to this particular issue. He didn't want her pity or her advice. But she left, talking to Leliana, and Trevelyan went to get another sausage roll.

Leaving was a circus. It always was. There were a thousand things to remember to pack, it seemed. This time he had extra stockings and rope, a new jar of the salve, and the half-burned candle. Tents in the rain smelled musty sometimes. Lavender would be nicer. He tucked _A Verse From The Heart_ in an outside pocket of his pack and spent half an hour tying new knots around his chair. It wasn't shaped anything like Cassandra, but it was something to add to their repertoire.

"Ready, boss?" Bull called from the draft horse Dennett had found for him somewhere. Dorian and Cassandra looked like the nobles they were, flanking him on their fine glossy horses. Behind them, the troops Cullen had assigned wore serious faces. Good, they weren't taking a bunch of green-as-grass newcomers all the way to Nevarra.  
Trevelyan pushed his foot into the stirrup and swung up onto his horse. It snorted and danced under him, catching his mood. "Let's go," he said, and they rode out of Skyhold, across the bridge and down the mountains. There was the beginning of a real road now, or the old road had been cleared enough to rebuild. Either way, it was a much easier journey now that the horses didn't have to wade through the drifts. Trevelyan remembered the first few trips and how the snow would build up under the wagons until they were wedged in place. They had hardly been an Inquisition then. He had hardly been an Inquisitor.

They camped in the foothills. There were cabins of a sort now for him and his party, but the soldiers still slept in tents. Good practice, Cullen would have told him, but Trevelyan felt a little guilty, being within four walls while his soldiers slept in canvas. He said as much as they were settling in.

"They would not want to see you in a tent," Cassandra told him. "They take pride in your prosperity. The troops built these, you know."

"I saw how many casks of ale they brought down," Bull said with a wink. "They won't suffer. Except maybe in the morning."

"Take comfort," said Dorian. "All is as it should be. Also, take any comfort you can find on the road. We'll all be bunking in the dirt before this is over."

At least Dorian wasn't giving Cassandra dirty looks. Trevelyan had half-expected he would. Dorian and Bull turned in early, not even three drinks in, and left him alone with Cassandra, who was sipping at a mug of ale.

"How was the War Council?" she asked, half a smile on her face.

"Cullen was blissfully ignorant," he said. "I tried not to look too much at the others."

"A good decision," she said.

"There are times that I think that we're the only ones who would have a problem with us being lovers," he said.

She shrugged. "Surely you and I are the ones who matter. We have not forgotten our duties. You and I serve a high calling, and we do so publicly. Others may have more leeway in what they do in their private lives."

"What is a private life?" he teased.

"We manage to have some approximation of time to ourselves," she said sweetly, "though we compose it piecemeal of minutes stolen here and there."

"Would you like to steal some now?" he asked.

"I thought you would never ask," she said.

There were beds, or at least something like beds, simple frames piled with wool blankets. They sat together on one. He bound her wrists, keeping things simple, and read her a chapter or two of _A Verse From The Heart_. Knight-Captain Simone met her poet and was instantly wooed, though he was slender and couldn't fight and she was battle-hardened. The beauty of his words softened her heart. Trevelyan thought that they softened Cassandra's too.

It was a pity he was no poet. He might have been no one instead of the Inquisitor, and perhaps have had a chance of winning Cassandra's heart. How he would have been introduced to her was another question altogether. At least he had had her full attention, as her prisoner and then as a curiosity with the power she needed access to. An inauspicious beginning, but he couldn't imagine anything would have brought them closer.

"Ready?" he asked, and when she nodded, he hooked a finger through the ropes and pulled her close before he began working on the knots. She made a noise of pleased surprise, which was certainly better than the alternative of her kneeing him in the groin.

"A little novelty for an ordinary day," he explained, whipping the ends of the rope out through the loops. "A reminder that even familiar situations can take a turn."

"A good reminder," she said. "One should always be prepared."

"I've never seen you willing to play the princess before," he said, slicking salve over her wrists.

She snorted. "Do not expect gowns. I will make an appearance. Somehow that is enough."

"Do you grant boons?" he teased.

"For you?" She arched an eyebrow. "Certainly. You may have your choice of one thing from my saddlebags. They contain all the riches I possess."

"I think I'll save that," he said.

"A wise decision," she said solemnly, her eyes twinkling. She yawned, withdrawing her hands from his to cover her mouth. "Perhaps it is time for bed."

The cabin was a little larger than a tent, but smaller than his quarters. The beds were on opposite walls. It was strange to sleep so close to her, but so far. He didn't dare ask if she wanted to pull the beds together. The fireplace breathed warmth into the room and she wouldn't need his body heat.

"Good night," he said.

She rose from the bed. "Good night," she said, and crossed the room. They turned their backs to each other to loosen and shed their outer layers, as if they hadn't seen each other in sleeping clothes a hundred times. He crawled into the bed and turned to see her tucked in, watching him.

"It will be an interesting trip," she said.

"I hope not," he told her, and she chuckled.

"Sweet dreams," she said, and turned her face to the wall.

"And to you." He nestled into the blankets. They were scratchy, but warm. He wondered if he'd wake to her beside him. He wondered if he was brave enough to go and ask her if she wanted company. He wondered if he should give up on all of it and stop tying her up. He could fall in love with someone else. He could build a foundation that would outlast the Inquisition.

When he woke, he realized he'd fallen asleep without exploring any of the options, and Cassandra was standing beside him.

"Good morning," she said. "I suggest you get up before Dorian steals your breakfast."

"Not the most likely candidate," he said, struggling up, still frowsy with sleep.

"He says the mountain air sharpens his appetite," she said, holding out his clothes. "I will see you outside."

He dressed himself slowly, thinking. There was no way he could keep himself from telling her for much longer. When he offered her his heart, she would refuse. After that, there would be no way to continue. He couldn't bite his tongue. He would betray himself with every move. He could not be near her without loving her, which would mean, in the end, that he couldn't be near her.

It would have been fine if it had been nothing but desire. He had solutions for desire. He had no solutions for love, especially not the kind that wrenched his heart out of his body. What would he do on the battlefield without her beside him, the strength of her arms an extension of his own? He would be half of himself without her. He had to bite his tongue.

He emerged from the cabin just in time to save his breakfast from Dorian's clutches, much to Bull's amusement and Dorian's dismay.

Another day of hard riding, another night in cabins. Another night binding Cassandra's wrists and reading to her, this time behind her back. He pulled her toward him again. She stumbled into his arms and stood with her back pressed to his chest.

"What an interesting sensation," she murmured.

"In what way?" he asked, her hair brushing his face.

"In general, I do not enjoy being overpowered," she said. "But in this case, I make an exception."

"Are we moving into a new era of our arrangement?" he asked, tugging her closer. Her bound hands were cupped behind her back, trapped between her ass and his groin. He wished she would reach just a little further and touch him. He slid his hands down her arms possessively as he reached for the knots. That was a moment he could take advantage of, a touch that could mean nothing. He leaned his forehead against her shoulder so that he could look at the ropes as he untied them. It was good that she was tall. He breathed in the warmth of her body. She smelled faintly like sweat and woodsmoke.

"We might," she said. "Something to consider as we ride."

"Something to discuss once we get back to Skyhold," he offered.

"I would not want to waste the riches contained in Bull's book," she mused. "Some of them seem to invite particular uses."

"I see," he said, now hoping she wouldn't move her hands. "We can experiment. Or I'm sure Bull would oblige you. You did hit him with a stick that once." He finished untying the knots and stepped back, the rope in his hands. She turned to look at him.

"You hit him too," she said, rubbing her wrists. "Dorian would surely object."

"It might be as simple as the whacking," he said. "That wasn't sexual." He picked up the salve. "I'm sure it could be sexual, but it wasn't that time. I don't think any of this has to be intimate, in that way."

"I did suspect that," she teased, "as you and I have been practicing some of these techniques extensively, and we are, as we have confirmed frequently, not lovers."

"Either we're doing this correctly or we're going to be brought up on charges by some sort of bondage police," he said, reaching for the salve.

"I am enjoying myself quite thoroughly," she said softly as he massaged her wrists.

"Good," he said. "That's what I want."

"We have already changed the arrangement," she said.

"In what way?" He studied the rope marks on her skin.

"We began to help me conquer my fear and serve you better," she said.

"Cassandra, no one could serve me better than you have," he told her.

She brushed his words away impatiently. "I found some pleasure in it," she said. "You have indulged me. I cannot express my gratitude."

"I don't need gratitude," he said. "I enjoy it too."

"For your own sake or mine?" she asked.

He looked up at her, his fingers still moving over her skin. "Does it matter?"

"I am not certain," she said. Her gaze was steady and clear. "What do you want, Max?"

"I just told you," he said. "I want what you want."

"That is not an answer," she said.

"I want you to be happy," he said. "You give so generously of yourself. You deserve a little indulgence."

"Max," she said softly. "What do you want?"

"In terms of...?" he asked.

"Do you want to tie me up?" she asked, taking his hands. "Do you want to haul me about, subject to your whims? Pour wax on me? Drip snow in inconvenient places? Prick me with a spur until I squirm? Am I your plaything? Your goddess? Your servant?"

"You're my friend," he said. "I like being able to give you what you need. Is that not enough?"

She studied him. "I do not know," she said after a long moment.

"Something to think about," he said.

She sighed and let him go. "We will not be short of things to consider as we ride."

"No," he agreed. "We will fill the time."

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Twenty-One**

He tied the rope around her chest, her wrists, her hips, her ankles, until it was woven around her like a harness. As she lay on the bunk, he used more rope to suspend her from the ceiling of his cabin. She swayed with the ship, the knots pressing into her. The jab of them was soothing. Philippe would never let her fall.

What other man could give her this? What other man could hang her among the stars and whisper sweet nothings in her ear? What other man would explain exactly what he wanted to do to her and then do it, with her enthusiastic permission? What other man could dress her in rope and make her a queen?

His hands moved all over her, everywhere she wanted to be touched. She jerked and jumped in the ropes as Philippe held her steady. Andraste, he made her feel like a storm at sea, all electricity and rising waves and untamed energy. She could barely contain the sounds she made, although she was sure the crew knew.

"Philippe," she whispered.

"You're mine," he told her.

"I am," she said, "I am, I am."


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian delivers his two cents.

It took another three days to make their way to the noble's estate. During the days, Bull taught them swear words in Qunlat. Dorian regaled them with tales of decadent, diffident nobility, hours of tawdry gossip about people Trevelyan would probably never meet. It was entertaining, of course, because it was Dorian, and Trevelyan welcomed the break from his thoughts. There were no more cabins along the route; they were back in tents, turning in early to stay out of the drizzle that had picked up when they'd crossed some invisible border. The extra hours inside meant that they read through a significant chunk of _A Verse From The Heart_. He and Cassandra didn't have any more deep conversations about the nature of their association. He tugged her toward him when he bound her and unwound her. She still seemed to like it. 

The noble welcomed them with open arms and open doors, insisting that they stay a night in his chateau. Trevelyan couldn't refuse, despite the slightly sour look on Cassandra's face. The nobles promised a feast to equal any in Val Royeaux, which made Cassandra's expression more pained, but Dorian's eyes lit up in anticipation. Trevelyan tried to be gracious. At least they got to bathe before dinner, and Cassandra had to wear something velvety and tailored. It wasn't quite the formal attire they'd all put on for the Empress' ball, but it fit her very nicely and made Trevelyan want to stroke her shoulders. 

They were put up in a suite of rooms, four bedchambers joined by a sitting room. Dorian had sweettalked an extra bottle of champagne out of one of the servants and they sipped from it, lounging in front of the fire in the sitting room. Bull lounged in an armchair with Dorian on the arm of it. Cassandra sat sideways on a sofa. Trevelyan sat on an exceedingly plush cushion on the floor, leaning back against the end of the sofa near Cassandra's feet. Dorian yanked the cork out of the champagne and caught the foam in his mouth. 

"There had better be a hidden door between our rooms," he said to Bull.

Bull shrugged. "I wasn't going to pretend to sleep in different rooms. Unless the beds are tiny, and then you're on your own."

"Are hidden doors all the rage in Nevarra?" Trevelyan asked Cassandra.

She rolled her eyes and reached for the champagne. "I would not know. I have not lived here for many years. And still they will preen in front of their friends and say a member of the royal family slept here and enjoyed their hospitality."

"If it gets me a soft bed for a night, I'm all for it," Bull grunted.

"He has a point," Trevelyan said. "Thank you, Your Highness, for letting us ride your coattails." He sketched a bow from the floor and she made a rude gesture in his direction. 

"You should let him ride more than that," Dorian said, taking the champagne back. "Not that my opinion matters."

"It does not," Cassandra said crisply. 

"The man confessed himself to you, Princess," Dorian went on, despite Bull's gently tightening hand on his knee and Trevelyan's increasingly panicked glare. "Not even a pity fuck? Look at the man. He's absolutely yearning for you."

"I do not like the turn this conversation has taken," Cassandra said. 

"Nor do I," Trevelyan gritted through clenched teeth. 

"Nor would I grant anyone what you so charmingly call a pity fuck," Cassandra said, and despite himself, it was a bit of a thrill for Trevelyan to hear her swear. "Pity is an unfit reason to take a lover."

"Go on then," Dorian said, utterly unfazed by anyone's attempts to stop him. "What are your criteria?"

"Excuse me?" Cassandra said in a stiff voice. Trevelyan held out his hand for the bottle of champagne, received it, and took a long swallow. He was frozen where he sat, his knees drawn up. He couldn't look at any of the others. 

"What are your criteria for taking a lover, as you so charmingly call it?" Dorian pressed. "If you won't even roll our sweet Trevelyan, who would have a chance?"

There was no explanation but champagne for the fact that she actually answered. There had been a significant amount of it at dinner - showing off for the princess, showing off for the Inquisition - and perhaps the fizz had gone to her head. It took her a moment, but she lifted her chin and began to speak slowly. "He should be a kind man."

"He?" Dorian asked.

"I prefer men, yes," Cassandra said. "At least, I have never yet met a woman who...." She hesitated.

"Rubbed you the right way?" Bull suggested. 

She scowled. "He must be brave as well as kind. He need not be eloquent, but he should make his meaning clear. I would prefer that he share my faith and that he serve some higher cause."

"Ah, but the thrill of bedding a non-believer!" Dorian said. "You never know when you might turn them." 

Bull patted his knee. "You're free to keep trying." 

"Nothing about his looks?" Dorian asked. "Personally, I'm very shallow, or, if you like, highly motivated by aesthetic appeal."

"That's obvious," said Bull smugly. 

"It is the spirit that matters, not the body," Cassandra declared. She paused. "But it would be nice if he were well-formed."

"Again I fail to see how my dear friend Maxwell fails to fit any of your criteria," Dorian said, gesturing, and Trevelyan wished he could crawl under the sofa and cradle the bottle of champagne until this was all over. "He's dashing, handsome, a perfect gentlemen except for the bit with the knives and the sneaking. He's always on his knees, as pious as anything. As for his form, well. He appears more than satisfactory, but I'd be happy to preview him for you."

"Dorian, leave it," Bull sighed. "I'm sorry. I'll put something in his mouth to shut him up." 

"I did not say I had any objections to Ser Trevelyan in the abstract," Cassandra said, blushing. "Many things are simple in the abstract."

"The world is falling down around our ears," Dorian said. "What the fuck are you waiting for? Pardon my Orlesian."

"It is not so simple," Cassandra said. "We are the Inquisition. Our comportment must be impeccable. It would be unseemly for the Inquisitor and the Seeker to engage in such behavior."

"It would be what _people_ do," grumbled Dorian. "Just pick another title that lets you feel better about it. It isn't as if you haven't got about a hundred of them." 

"That is not the point," Cassandra said.

"I will never understand you," Dorian told her. "Cassandra. Let yourself live." 

"I live well enough on my own," Cassandra said, looking down at her hands. "Besides, there must be a spark." 

"A spark?" Dorian asked. 

"I cannot describe it," Cassandra said, "but they must both sense it. They must both feel it in their very bones. It is the passion which is the precursor to love, which should be the goal of such a relationship." 

"And you think..." Dorian began, but Bull stood up, tipping Dorian off the arm of the chair.

"Let's go test that bed," Bull said, and hauled an unprotesting Dorian away.

Trevelyan sat staring into the fire and draining the bottle of champagne. He felt Cassandra get up from the sofa, her feet sliding across the smooth leather. She paused - he could see her knees out of the corner of his eye - and then went to her bedchamber. Trevelyan had been sitting so long he was stiff. He didn't want to move, but he also wasn't certain he could. The bottle slid out of his fingers and down his legs to roll across the floor. He was a strange statue. Maybe he'd just sleep here. 

There were footsteps, clearly not Bull's or Dorian's, as they were making different noises. Cassandra's knees came into view again, now obscured by a linen nightgown dyed a pale lilac. He hadn't known she owned such a thing. Probably she didn't and it had probably been pressed on her by the ladies of the house. They couldn't have a princess sleeping in breeches. At least it looked reasonably simple. He imagined a lot of ornamentation and embroidery would be difficult to get comfortable in.

"Max," she said.

"Lady Pentaghast," he replied, not looking at her. 

"I hope you are not angry with me," she said. "That Dorian. He needles me until I cannot think. I would not have chosen you for an example. I am sorry if we upset you."

"It's all right," he said. "This is what happens when I make up a story. We all know how Dorian loves a story and what he believes to be a righteous cause."

"He is a good friend to you, at least," she said. "I admire him for that." 

"Generous of you," he said.

She tilted her head and looked down at him. "Get some sleep. We have an appointment with a number of Venatori and you will want to be rested when you meet them." 

He gazed up at her. It was strange to see her in a gown of any kind. The nightgown as loose, but not entirely opaque; it outlined her body in a pleasing way. Some prurient part of him wondered if she was wearing smallclothes. He doubted it. Her breasts were unbound under the fabric. How would it feel to slide the floor-skimming length of the gown up her body, the linen sleek against her skin? Something like praying, he thought.

She was still looking at him. "I don't think I can get up," he said.

She held out her hand. Her grip was strong and sure. She braced against his weight and pulled him up without hesitation or the hint of a stagger. He thought with a pang of just how certain she was of him - his weight, his strength, the pull he would exert on her - that she didn't even have to calculate the force she needed to help him up. She just knew. She stood steady.

"I would tell him to give up," Trevelyan said, "but knowing Dorian, that would only increase the rate of his comments."

"I can bear being told whom I should or should not sleep with," Cassandra said with a smile. "One can hardly avoid it in such company, or indeed in any company, although it is not always so straightforward. In a way, his candor is refreshing."

"If it does not trouble you, I will not let it trouble me," he said.

"I appreciate your being upset on my behalf," she said, squeezing his hand. "You did a very convincing impression of a rejected suitor."

"Didn't I?" he said. 

"In your next life, you might take to the stage," she suggested. "When you finish applying my liniment, naturally." 

"Naturally," he said, releasing her hand. "Good night."

"Good night," she told him, and disappeared into the other room.

If there were hidden doors, he didn't find any, but that might have been because he fell face-first into the pillows and didn't emerge until Bull shook him awake before dawn. 

"Ready, boss?" Bull asked as Trevelyan unearthed himself from the bed. 

"Ready as I'll ever be," Trevelyan said blearily. 

They made a quick breakfast of food that had been brought to the sitting room. Cassandra had had to promise they'd stop on the way back to avoid an elaborate morning meal. The soldiers were waiting when they made their way down to the stables. The horses fretted in the morning fog, restless. It was chilly and damp, not Cassandra's favorite weather. Their boots squelched in mud that was just this side of icy. They'd have to work to stay warm. Trevelyan swung up into the saddle and led them out toward the castle. It was half the day's ride, but they made good time despite the mud. His horse huffed steam with each stride. He shivered in the wind. It was a relief to see the red canvas of the camp tents. He dismounted by the requisition table and handed his reins to the officer. 

"Inquisitor," Harding said. "Glad you could join us. How was the castle?"

"Soft beds, cold champagne," he told her, grinning. "How's the camp?"

"Cold mud, hard bread," Harding said. "Ready to capture the castle?"

"I brought an extra-nice flag," he said. "And something from the other castle." He reached into his saddlebags and brought out a bundle of napkins. Harding's eyes lit up. She unwrapped the outer layer to reveal flaky pastry.

"A girl could get used to this," she said. 

"Stick with me and I'll keep you in pastries," he promised. 

"The things you say," Harding teased. "Go get rid of those Venatori so we can go home, Inquisitor."

Trevelyan touched his chest in a quick salute. Cassandra rejoined him as he strode toward the castle, which was half-hidden beyond a grove of trees. 

"You seem to get along with Scout Harding," she murmured.

"She's funny," Trevelyan said. "She works hard for us and does a good job. She's cute, too."

"She looks well enough," Cassandra allowed. "She acquits herself admirably. Are you going to pursue her?"

"Is she running?" Trevelyan turned to look.

"Romantically," Cassandra said. "She seems to be fond of you, and she evidently fulfills your requirements."

"I don't have requirements," he said. "And I'm not planning to pursue Scout Harding, as charming as she is. Can we discuss this later?"

"Keep going," Bull said.

"For a big guy, you move quietly," Trevelyan said. 

"Comes from being a spy, I guess," Bull said.

"I was also interested in your interest or lack thereof as pertains to Scout Harding," Dorian said.

Trevelyan sighed. "Can we just go deal with the Venatori, please?"

"Please," Cassandra said, and surged ahead as the castle came into view. Trevelyan followed her as stealthily as he could, trying to keep his mind on the battle. The Venatori weren't as bad as dragons, but they were definitely a pain in the ass. The mages were the worst. He hated how they whirled away in a drift of pages. He swigged a potion from a cache he'd found and took stock of the situation. There seemed to be a thousand of the Venatori, all screaming about Corypheus. But his team was experienced. He'd brought the right people for the job. He spotted Cassandra and slipped in behind her to finish off the cultist she was sparring against.

"Solid hit," she said. 

"Let's hit a few more," he said, and they leapt into the fray together. In another room, Bull roared and Dorian's spells arced with violet sparks. They cleared out the castle, chamber by chamber, and reached the top. It was foggy on the battlements and the stones were slippery. A demon loomed out of the mist and Dorian nearly slid through the crenellations trying to avoid it. The glow Trevelyan had hoped was the sun was a rift instead. At least it was mostly wraiths that spawned, and they were easily dealt with, even in the fog. He drew down the power through the anchor to close the rift, feeling how solid the stone was under his feet, and how firm Cassandra's bearing was at his shoulder. After he had sifted through the remains, he rose, crossed to the standard pole, and raised the Inquisition's flag to the top. Whatever had been there before had tattered and shredded in the wind. The Inquisition's banner stood out proudly in its place, likely invisible from any distance, but the weather would clear, and their mark would be seen. 

"Josephine's nobles may not be best pleased," Dorian observed as the wind ruffled his hair. 

Cassandra scoffed. "The Inquisition resolved the problem. The Inquisition can claim the castle. Josephine's nobles may spit into the wind."

Bull clapped her on the shoulder. "Oh, I like you."

"Thank you," Cassandra said. "I like you too."

The sun was going down. They limped down from the tower, back to camp. Harding had made sure that there was enough hot water to wash up with. They took turns bathing behind one of the tents. Trevelyan shivered as he scrubbed himself down with a washcloth, but he felt much better afterward. It felt like the Venatori magic left an unpleasant residue. The anchor in his hand throbbed. He dressed quickly and went to warm himself by the fire. 

The scouts had prepared stew and the nobles had sent along bread and a quantity of wine from the chateau. It was a good, hearty meal. Trevelyan felt warmed through. Someone had brought some sort of lute and played jigs and reels while Harding of all people demonstrated dance steps. This was victory. He saw it in the soldier's smiling faces and heard it in the softness of Cassandra's chuckles.

"Back to the chateau tomorrow," Bull said. "Please tell me I don't have to wear a shirt."

"You have to wear a shirt," Trevelyan said. "Otherwise they'll all be swooning into their soup, overcome by your magnificence."

"It's true, kadan," Dorian said, caressing Bull's arm. "They don't deserve you."

"It would be a truly inspiring sight," Cassandra said. 

"My eyes are up here," Bull told her, gesturing with two fingers, and she laughed.

"Because they would be so flustered, I mean," she said. "Your own impressive stature needs no description."

"That's what I thought," Bull said, sounding satisfied.

Trevelyan went to bed before the wine was gone. Bull and Dorian had reached the stage of gazing into each other's eyes that deterred company. The soldiers were still drinking and dancing, clapping their hands exactly where the beat wasn't. _Let them celebrate,_ he thought. They deserved it. But the wind was picking up, which likely meant more rain than the drizzle they'd endured most of the day, and the hours of fighting had worn him out. 

Cassandra followed him into the tent. He was unsurprised to see that their bedrolls were laid out together on the waxed canvas that kept them out of the mud. 

"It is cold," she said. "I do not think Dorian knows the fire spell."

"No, he has other ways to stay warm," Trevelyan murmured. 

"Perhaps tomorrow you can read to me," she suggested, stripping off her gambeson and her boots and laying them at the corner of the canvas floor. "Bull and Dorian will likely retire early to enjoy the accomodations. Besides, even if we were caught, Dorian would be delighted to imagine he had encouraged a liaison."

"That's true," he said, settling into his bedroll. She fit her body to his and he put his arms around her. She was right about the cold. It was the kind that seeped into one's bones and found every old ache. This was the practical solution. 

"Ahh," she said, wriggling slightly against him in a way that made him wish she'd stop or that she'd do it for a few minutes longer. "I confess I am growing used to this. You had better take me to the desert next to break me of the habit."

"I've trained the ice dragon to blow on the tents," he teased. "You'd be just as cold."

"Then I would sleep just as close," she said, pulling his hands to her chest. "Are you still angry with me?"

"I was never angry with you," he said into her hair. "Scout Harding is a lovely woman, but I think you're right. The Inquisitor can't be in a relationship. It wouldn't be fair to the other party to always come second to Thedas, or to think that they were the reason I neglected my duties. The Inquisition needs my full attention."

"She would be lucky," Cassandra said. "But your decision is probably for the best."

"That's all I ever hope for," he said, and was asleep before she said anything else.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Twenty-Two**

They were putting into port the next day. Madeleine paced back and forth in her cabin, still wearing her sailor's clothes. Philippe liked her in breeches just as much as he enjoyed her skirts, and the loose shirts were much easier to take off. But that wasn't what she needed to be considering. She needed to think of what she was going to do, or what she wasn't going to do. Philippe wasn't required to drop her off here, but he might, or she might steal off the ship and find her house's representative. 

Would they believe she'd been all right all along? What had her father told people? Would he have sent Benoit Montvallée instead? 

She had options, and resources, but she needed information. She needed time. And Maker, she needed Philippe's lips on hers.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes are overcome and find delight in the afternoon.

They rode back to the chateau in triumph, leaving a small contingent of soldiers to clear out the castle they'd claimed. Harding had deftly reorganized the supply chain to furnish the new encampment and was riding back with them, looking at ease on the back of her halla. Trevelyan had never seen her outside the camps before. She and Dorian chatted amiably. Trevelyan heard her laughing and smiled over at her. She grinned back, bright as a ray of sunshine. She really was a lovely person. In some timeline where he wasn't in love with Cassandra, he might have fallen for Harding instead. It would have been sweet and easy. He would have loved her. But she wouldn't have been the other half of his heart, the shield at his back.

He glanced over at Cassandra. She was watching him, but looked away when he caught her eye. Her chin was high and her shoulders seemed slightly stiff. 

"So, Harding," Bull said, "how long have you been a redhead?"

"All my life," Harding told him. "Why?"

"No reason," Bull said happily. 

"If you're interested in the upholstery, all you have to do is ask," Harding said, winking at Bull and managing to include Dorian. "It's all original." 

"You're very blessed," Bull told her.

"I know," Harding said cheerfully. 

They were greeted at the gates by a crowd of cheering servants, while the nobles stood on the steps in the front garden to receive them graciously.

"I wonder how much they had to pay these poor souls to stand here and shout for us," Bull murmured as they handed off their mounts. 

"Probably not enough," Harding said. 

"Perhaps they are genuinely grateful," Cassandra said.

"Sometimes you're so charmingly naïve," Dorian told her. "How do you manage it?"

"Extensive meditation," Cassandra said in a dry voice, and Trevelyan laughed so loud he startled himself. He had to smooth his expression into a semblance of dignity as they approached the family. The lady of the house was frowning slightly. He hailed them, holding up the hand with the anchor, and they smiled again. 

They had a very nice lunch in the greenhouse of the chateau, a light meal of fish, salad, and sorbet. Rain pattered gently on the glass, but it was warm inside, crowded with plants of all shapes, sizes, and colors. Trevelyan described the battle in great detail between bites, which meant that everything he eventually ate was cold if it was supposed to be warm, and tepid if it was supposed to be cold. He praised his party and the soldiers for their brave efforts, and mentioned the Inquisition's plan to renovate the structure and use it as a base. The nobles looked oddly pleased.

"You will come back to check on the outpost, won't you, Inquisitor?" the older daughter said. 

"Our Althea has dreams of joining the Inquisition," said her mother indulgently. 

"We welcome those who wish to serve," Cassandra said. "Provided they are old enough to make the commitment." 

"I will be twenty next spring," Althea assured her. "I am the finest archer for twenty miles, and I have been studying with a local healer for some time." 

"Perhaps a future detail of soldiers could escort you to Skyhold on their way back," Trevelyan said. "You should discuss this with your family."

Alecta blushed prettily. "My betrothed has already pledged to your cause. It would be romantic to work side by side for the future of Thedas."

"There are few bonds more meaningful," Cassandra said, taking a dainty spoonful of sorbet. 

"I want to go!" wailed the youngest daughter, a girl of perhaps eight. 

Althea smiled. "Alecta is always fighting." 

"Usually with me," said one of her brothers with a sour expression. 

"Focus on your form and your stamina," Cassandra said solemnly to the little girl. "One day we will meet again and you can demonstrate your skills."

Alecta's face lit up.

"Or you could be a scout," Harding said. "See the world. Find the right spots for the Inquisition to build up and do good. You don't have to be big to serve."

"We should probably excuse ourselves before we recruit your entire family," Dorian said with just the right notes of irony and graciousness. "I imagine dinner will be magnificent."

"I'll have the servants draw the baths," said the lady of the house. Trevelyan realized he should have listened more closely to the introductions, but he couldn't recall her name. 

"Thank you for your hospitality," he said. "We are eternally grateful." 

He was even more grateful as he slid into the bath. The copper tub wasn't enormous, but if he drew his knees up, he could fit most of himself in the perfumed water. He soaked for a while and then washed himself all over. He thought of Cassandra doing the same thing a few rooms away. One day he might coax her back to Emprise du Lion for a trip to the hot springs. When the Inquisition had finished its work, they might rest. Maybe then his candles and poetry would tempt her. 

He stepped out of the tub and dried himself on the plush towels. There was a long robe as well, deep blue satin. He pulled it around himself and made his way back to his bedchamber. Perhaps he might nap before he had to dress for dinner. It had been a long time since he had slept in the nude. It wasn't a pleasure he could really indulge in at Skyhold, with everyone bursting in at all hours with urgent news. But here, he could remember the luxury of being naked in the afternoon.

Except that when he opened his door, Cassandra was sitting on his bed, wearing a robe like his. He almost fell over. Her feet were bare and he could see her crossed legs all the way up to the knee. Had he ever seen her legs before? He couldn't imagine when he would have. They were very shapely. The top of her robe showed a deep V of skin. Some part of him sent up a brief prayer that her sash wouldn't hold. It wouldn't be the Maker that answered that one. 

"Are you going to leave the door open?" she asked.

He gestured at it for no particular reason. "Do you want me to?"

"I would prefer that you closed it," she said.

"Did you need something?" he asked. 

"I thought we might make use of the afternoon," she said. "If you brought rope." 

"I did," he said. He wished he had put on smallclothes after his bath, but the servants had taken his clothes away and left only the robe. He couldn't ask her to leave now. Besides, the thought of tying her up while only a thin layer of cloth separated his hands and her skin was irresistible. He went to his pack and pulled out the rope, wrapped in neat hanks, and the candle from Val Royeaux. He lit it with his flint and tinder and set it on the bureau. 

"You came prepared," she said. 

"I do my best to be ready to serve at my lady's pleasure," he said. 

"Have you anything new to show me?" she asked. 

"I do," he said. "I thought the setting might be suited to a little variety."

"How perceptive you are," she said, with a smile that sent shivers up his spine. "Do you need me to lie down?"

"No," he said, swallowing hard against the thought of her reclining on the bed, her robe slipping open. "I would like you to stand." She obliged and he stepped up behind her. He looped the rope around her chest, underneath her breasts, and drew it over her shoulders. He tucked the rope around itself and drew it over her breasts one at a time, crisscrossing and looping until he had created a sort of a harness. Her breasts were heavy and soft against his hands. He couldn't help caressing them as he drew the rope through. He could see the shadow of her cleavage. She breathed a little faster as he worked. When he had secured the cords, he worked his way down to her waist, a corset of wraps that he tied off with a flourish. 

"I could bind your wrists with the ends," he told her, using the dangling ends to brush her knees. "Or I might tie them with another piece, and loop them over that extremely decorative bit in the middle of the headboard."

"Then do it," she said in a husky voice. Her nipples stood out now between the ropes. He longed to slide a finger under the cords to ensure they lay smooth, but it would be too much. Instead, he picked up another piece of rope and whipped her wrists together, holding them above her head as he walked her backwards to the bed. He put his other arm around her waist, supporting her as she slid onto the bed and reclined against the headboard. He hitched the rope ends to the headboard, around the decorative spike that crowned it. 

"Comfortable?" he asked.

"Oh yes," she said.

He decorously reached for the hem of her robe and tucked it around her legs. He would not glimpse anything she did not wish him to see. She watched him, that same smile on her lips, the one that was as husky as her voice. 

"Shall I read to you?" he asked, sitting next to her so that he faced the headboard. He adjusted his own robe carefully. 

"Perhaps," she said. 

"What else would we do, with you so restrained?" he teased.

"One hears of many possibilities," she said. "Max."

"My lady?" He sketched a bow.

"Would you do this with Scout Harding?" she asked.

"Do you think she wants me to?" Trevelyan asked, bewildered.

"She likes you," Cassandra said. "You flirt with her. You flirt with each other. It is a reasonable question."

Trevelyan shook his head. "I flirt with her, but she and I both know it means nothing," he said. "It's no different from flirting with Dorian. There's no real interest there."

"I think she would have you, if you asked," Cassandra said. 

"I'm not going to ask," he told her. "I value Harding very highly, but I'm not interested at the moment in changing our relationship." He pressed one knuckle into the arch of her foot. "What's brought this on?"

"Dorian made me realize that I monopolize you," she said. "He and Bull have reminded me that passion and duty may go hand in hand, with diligent effort. You are a man with many fine qualities. There is more to life than responsibility. Even the Inquisitor ought to be able to seek happiness."

"And you think I would find it with Scout Harding?" he asked.

"She is only one candidate," Cassandra said. "I saw the way you smiled at her." 

He was momentarily distracted by the way her breasts rose and fell as she breathed. She was half-sitting, half-lying against the headboard and it was a delectable angle. "I smile at many people. I am with the person I have chosen to be with, Cassandra."

"You always tell me this," she said. "That you are choosing me." 

"I am always choosing you," he told her in a low voice. 

"You are too busy to pursue any other woman," she said. "I have taken many of the nights you might have spent flirting in Herald's Rest."

He laughed. "If I were another person, perhaps. I have been more than satisfied to spend my time with you. I did not spend my nights flirting in Herald's Rest before you were part of them. I don't think I would if you gave this up." A pang shot through him at the thought. His mouth went dry.

"There are moments I fear the day you fall in love," Cassandra said. "It is selfish of me. I would not want to lose this." She rattled her wrists gently against the headboard. "But what claim would I have on your time?"

He moved closer to her, sitting next to her with his back braced against the headboard, and crooked his finger under her chin, gently urging her to look at him. His heart seemed too big for his chest and it thudded at irregular intervals. "Claim all the time you wish, my lady. There is no danger of my attention being divided."

"You puzzle me," she said. "You are a good man, and a brave man, and a handsome one. Any woman would be lucky to have you. Will you not allow yourself to love?"

"Cassandra," he said helplessly, and his hand moved from her chin to cup her cheek. She stared into his eyes and the knot of confusion between her brows slowly unraveled.

"Oh," she said. 

He could not speak. His heart had grown to block his throat. His hand still cradled her face, his thumb stroking along the arch of her cheekbone.

"Would you like to kiss me?" she asked. 

"I would," he rasped. 

"Well, then," she said, and he leaned forward and let his lips meet hers. It was nothing like the sleepy kiss they'd shared in Emprise du Lion. This was tender, edged with barely contained passion, and it sent a lance of pure sweetness through him that undid him entirely. He was felled by a kiss. It seemed fitting. He leaned back, unwilling to press his luck. Her face was unreadable. 

"Filomena," she said, and the ropes fell away in an instant. Her robe was nearly falling open but she didn't seem to care. She slid off the bed on the far side and strode out of the room.

Trevelyan buried his head in his hands. 

In a moment, she was back, nearly flinging the door open. She seemed to be chewing on something. He looked up at her. She swallowed. She looked like a ship in full sail, some energy propelling her. 

"I cannot reconcile it," she said. "Our work and our hearts. But I trust you."

" _Our_ hearts?" he asked. 

She laughed softly and stood in front of him. "Did you imagine you were alone?"

"I knew it absolutely," he told her. "I would have sworn on my family's honor."

She took his hands and put them on her waist. "I asked you to help me master my helplessness. My heart was as susceptible as any part of me. I have been half-paralyzed with yearning since I first asked you to touch me. Do you remember?"

He nodded.

"An invitation someone else might have taken advantage of," she said. "And you rubbed my feet without heed for your own desires. Sometimes it seemed as if you were sent by the Maker not to save the world, but to deliver me. A miracle."

"You are the miracle," he said, stroking her waist gently. 

"My reservations remain," she said. "Thedas must come first, before any concern of ours. There is work we must do together. Overcome my doubts. I think you know how to make a start."

He pulled her onto his lap, half-dazed with wonderment. He caressed her hair, her cheek her neck. She smiled. He drew her head softly toward his and kissed her, trying to communicate all he had left unsaid over the past months. Her mouth tasted like herbs; he vaguely recalled there were mixtures that prevented pregnancy and for a moment wished she didn't have to take them. But what a distraction that would be: it was a dream for peacetime, not for the world at war. Her tongue slid against his and he groaned and held her closer. She shifted on his lap, her thigh brushing his cock, and now she was the one who groaned, as if she could feel his touch already. 

It was almost a pity the robes were so easily removed. He would have enjoyed undressing her slowly. It only took tugging at the sash and the whole garment slipped away, their two robes heaped together on the floor. Her hands were everywhere on his skin, ardently exploring his chest, his back, his belly, and beyond. He followed her lead, finally weighing her breasts in his hands. Her chest was still striped from the rope. He traced the marks of it, rolling her nipples gently between his fingers as he went. He stroked the skin at the dip of her waist and lower, lower, until he could feel the heat rising from the dark tangle of curls between her legs.

"What is the lady's pleasure?" he whispered against her mouth. 

For answer, she straddled him, hovering over his lap, and took his hand. Together they reached between her thighs. Trevelyan groaned to feel her slickness on his fingertips. She kept her hand over his as he spread her moisture along her folds. Every so often, their joined fingers brushed the head of his cock, which jumped at the touch. His hips jumped along with it. Cassandra smiled and kissed him passionately, all urgent tongue. She wrapped her fingers around his cock and guided him in, biting his lip as she adjusted to the girth of him. She lowered herself slowly, sighing into his mouth, a sound he had never known he'd longed for. She was hot and tight around him and he wanted desperately to thrust up into her, but he let her set the rhythm, holding her hips to support her as she rocked over him. One hand strayed to her breasts. She gasped in approval as he caressed them and squeezed gently. 

Hot skin slid against skin. They were undoing all the good of the bath, he thought, but he couldn't have cared less. He was inside her, she was all around him, and nothing mattered but the various sounds of her pleasure. His hand slipped from her hip to find her hand. Without words, he asked her to show him what she wanted. Their fingertips found the knot of nerves he sought and she moaned. Maker, every sound she made was all he wanted to hear for the rest of his life. She taught him how to touch her, slow circles and faster ones, and he was going to come undone but he'd be damned if it didn't happen for her first. He thought of anything that would slow him down. The reality of Cassandra was overwhelming. 

Her hips were rocking faster now. She took his cock to the hilt every time she ground down against him. Her hand guided his along her folds to find more moisture and he could feel his cock sliding into her cunt. It was nearly too much. He slid his fingers back to the knot and focused on her, only on her, the timbre of her cries and the tension in her body. He could feel her release building inside her. Her thighs trembled against his. Her back arched. She nipped at his mouth as she kissed him. By the light, she was nearly there. He circled and circled the knot of nerves until she was whispering his name, frantic, moaning into his mouth. Her whole body tensed, taut as a bowstring, and then her pleasure rippled through her. She dropped her head to his shoulder and gasped. He could feel the strength of her inner muscles clutching at his cock. It nearly undid him, but he waited out the shudders that ran through her body. She raised her head, breathing hard, and pressed her forehead against his. He moved slowly inside her, adjusting his speed according to the noises she made. There were still tremors pulsing through her. She stroked his hair with one hand, raking the short nails of the other hand down his chest to his belly. Fire shot through him. 

"Surrender without consequences," she whispered against his lips, and he thrust up into her, finally, finally letting go, his body and soul joining hers in some realm beyond the one they knew. 

_The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Twenty-Three_

Benoit Montvallée was waiting when they docked, of course. Madeleine had described him. Philippe picked him out of the crowd easily enough. At least the man had the sense to stand well back. Montvallée waited until the crew were carrying off the cargo and then stormed up to the Caprice, brandishing a cane that probably contained a sword.

"Philippe Lefort," he roared.

"Captain Philippe Lefort," Philippe corrected genially. "May I help you?"

"I demand you produce the person of Madeleine Duvalier, whom you abducted from her dressing room nearly three months ago." Montvallée looked smug.

"I did as you say," Philippe told him, "but I fear Lady Duvalier is no longer in our company."

"What? Impossible," Montvallée said. "You have hardly put into port."

"Nevertheless," Philippe said. "I am afraid I find your request quite impossible to fulfill. Good day, sir."

"I will get a warrant and I will search your boat," Montvallée thundered. "I will find her, wherever you have cached her. Lady Duvalier is to be my wife."

"My condolences," said Philippe, not without an inward wince, and strolled past Montvallée. "If you'll excuse me, I hope to find some lodgings on solid ground."


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull and Dorian can't find Cassandra.

Trevelyan rose on unsteady legs. He blew out the candle as he crossed the room to find the ewer of water by the basin. He dampened a cloth and brought it back to Cassandra, asking with his eyes if it was all right to wipe her clean. She lowered her eyelids in assent, watching as he ran the cloth gently over her skin. She was unselfconscious and he gazed at her in wonder: the fine dark hairs on her calves that grew ever finer on her thighs, the curls that parted to reveal the shocking pink of her folds, the strong muscles in her legs and belly, the rosy tips of her breasts. One day he would know every inch of her. He vowed it to himself. They would take the time to know each other completely: each nerveless spot, each sensitive place, each callus and scar. 

He cleaned himself as he walked back to the basin, leaving the cloth there, and slid back into bed next to her. She stretched out against him, cat-like, and pulled the edge of the coverlet over them both. What luxury to feel her skin against his at last, pressed together from chest to toes. She kissed him in a lazy sort of way as he wrapped his arms around her. 

"Have I conquered your doubts?" he whispered. 

"You performed admirably," she said in a contented voice. "I may offer you the chance to prove yourself again later."

"What a privilege," he teased. 

"Granted to few," she said, yawning. 

"My luck is holding," he said.

"Perhaps mine is changing," she murmured, closing her eyes. 

They woke up to Bull pounding on the door. "You might want to get up if you want to be dressed for dinner," he called. "And we might need to send a search party after Cassandra. She isn't in her room."

"I'll let you know if I find her," Trevelyan called back. Cassandra laughed softly against his throat. "I'm sure she's around somewhere." 

"Uh huh," Bull said in a voice that sounded both knowing and skeptical. "See you in the dining room, boss." 

He kissed her lingeringly before getting out of bed. He didn't remember whose robe was whose as he picked them up, but the one he pulled on seemed to fit. He didn't bother to tie it. He held Cassandra's robe up by the shoulders as she slipped into it. She turned to face him and he took the edges of her robe in his hands, pulling them together across her chest. She reached up and pushed her hand through his hair, drawing him closer for a kiss that made him want to undress her all over again. Or maybe they could leave the robes on - the fabric felt good against his skin, another layer of sensation. 

"Behave yourself," Cassandra scolded as she pressed her body against his. 

"I find myself less inclined to do so," he said. "For some reason. Perhaps lunch disagreed with us and we're too indisposed to attend dinner." 

"We cannot have that," she admonished, although she didn't pull away. "Duty first, or duty alone. We are not at liberty to shirk our responsibilities." 

"After?" he asked. "When we are ourselves again, and not our obligations?"

"After," she promised, sealing it with a kiss. He stepped back and wrapped the robe around her, tying her sash at her waist. She looked disheveled and radiant. He wanted to draw her back toward him and kiss her again and again, tugging apart the knot he'd just tied, but he took another step back instead. 

"I should go and dress," she said, although she didn't move.

"I think you look ravishing just as you are," he told her. 

She chuckled. "How gratifying. We might give ourselves away if we appeared at dinner in such garments." 

"You would rather the others did not know," he realized.

"For now," she said, and caught his hand, pulling him toward her. "I am not ashamed, Max. We must find our own balance before we reveal ourselves." 

"For a romantic, you're awfully sensible," he told her, trying to keep the ache out of his voice.

"Max, I would shout your name from the top of the tower at Skyhold," she said softly. "I have worn your favor into battle. I long to let myself need you as much as Thedas needs us, but I do not find myself capable of leaving the fate of the world in the hands of others."

"You wouldn't be my Cassandra if you did," he said, touching the rope she still wore around her wrist. "Forever seeking truth and justice." 

"Some things I sought have been found," she told him, sliding her arms around him. "I have faith that we will discover the rest together."

"Go and dress yourself in your finery," he said, bending to kiss her neck. She murmured approvingly. "Who knew that saving the world involved so many courses of dinner?"

"The price of nobility," she joked, stepping away, clearly reluctant to leave his embrace. "I will see you soon."

"I'll be imagining taking off every stitch of your formal outfit," he told her.

She smiled, her eyes twinkling. "How did you know my heart's dearest dream?" she said, and left the room. 

He found another cloth and washed himself as best he could. His skin had kept the scent of their mingled sweat. He wished he could bottle the scent, wear it in a vial around his neck. Already it seemed as if he had imagined the whole encounter. Had she really offered him her mouth and then her body? Had she as good as told him that she loved him? Had they caressed each other, each deriving pleasure from the other's ecstasy, until they had lost themselves in bliss? He glanced at the rumpled bed. There was proof there. It had not been a dream. 

He dressed himself quickly, pulling on the various layers of his formal attire with practiced fingers. He wore them more now that they had accumulated victories. In the beginning, he had worn only workday clothes. Demons didn't care about velvet or gold braid. Only people did. He pulled back his hair, braiding it into a bun that approximated Harding's. His hair was getting long. It hadn't been a priority for the last year or so. He had been clean-shaven once too, but the beard was lower-maintenance. He thought again about rubbing his face against Cassandra's most tender parts and had to adjust his breeches. He looked into the mirror, making sure each part of his uniform looked correct. As Cassandra frequently reminded him, he had a part to play. The Inquisitor had to look dignified, polished. The man inside the costume was nearly irrelevant, as long as the image was clear. 

The others were already in the sitting room when he emerged, lounging on the furniture in their own formal outfits. Dorian had both shoulders covered. Bull was wearing a jacket. It was astonishing, really. 

"Looking sharp, boss," Bull said. "Oh, we found Cassandra. Turns out, she's a heavy sleeper."

"I was quite insensible," she said, yawning. "Sleeping on the ground is no longer restful." 

"Quite," Dorian said. "Set your War Council on that mission, Inquisitor. Beds for all."

"Already working on it," Trevelyan said. "Shall we?"

"The sooner to table, the sooner to drinking," Dorian said. "An excellent plan."

They all walked down together. The nobles - Verranthus was their family name, Trevelyan remembered - had once again commanded an elaborate spread, much more varied and rich than the lunch. Trevelyan took his seat next to Cassandra and the first course began. There were various hors d'oeuvres, followed by a soup course, followed by some delicate dish involving scallops and squid ink. There were tiny hens stuffed with oyster, and an incredible tartare accompanied by a crisp salad, and then there was cheese and fruit and miniature chocolate mousses. The wine flowed freely, a new variety to accompany each course. Even the children sampled it, in small glasses that contained mostly water with just enough wine to delicately flavor it. The whole room was lit with candles and lamps. Everything glowed, gilded and airy. Cassandra pressed her knee to Trevelyan's under the table. He laughed at one of Althea's jokes and did not reach down to caress Cassandra's leg, however tempted he was. She was right: duty came before pleasure, and as delicious as the meal was, it was part of the work, not leisure. 

The conversation lasted late into the night. Harding told stories of the territories she had explored and all the difficulties she'd encountered, including some hilarious anecdotes about a tenacious family of nugs. Bull tried hard to censor himself around the little ones and generally succeeded, but they giggled incessantly when he slipped. Dorian charmed the Verranthuses despite being Tevinter, and Cassandra's very presence seemed to delight them. All in all, thought Trevelyan, a very successful mission. They'd weakened the Venatori, gained a new stronghold, and the chocolate mousse was exquisite. He sipped at the dessert wine and let its sweetness fill him to the brim. 

The dinner finally wound to a close. Cassandra was talking to Harding, something Trevelyan couldn't hear as he discussed the terms of the Inquisition establishing their holding with Lord Verranthus, whose glance kept darting back to Cassandra with something like astonishment. The Inquisition would hold the castle as long as they needed it, in return for training local troops. That was more favorable than Trevelyan could have hoped. His indifferent princess was a mighty negotiator, even without saying a word. All of the conversations faltered around the same time. The younger children were yawning and servants arrived to put them to bed. 

"We would love to linger," Lady Verranthus said, "but surely you all need your rest?"

"I fear we do," Trevelyan said. "It's a long ride back to Skyhold, and we will have nothing as fine as your hospitality on the road."

She looked pleased. "Then we will not keep you from your beds any longer. Thank you for all your help, Inquisitor."

He got up and bowed. "It was our pleasure, Lady Verranthus. Good night."

The climb back to their rooms seemed interminable. Harding left them at the foot of the stairs with a cheerful farewell and went off to wherever she was lodged. Trevelyan was all too aware of Cassandra behind him, and Bull and Dorian behind her. It was as if his bodily sense of her had shifted contexts from battle to any time she was near him. They went into the sitting room and settled onto the furniture: Bull in his chair with Dorian reclining against him, Cassandra on the sofa with Trevelyan. 

"No champagne this time?" Trevelyan asked. 

"Alas, no," Dorian said. "I do have a bottle of whiskey if you're in the mood for a nightcap." 

"Why not?" said Cassandra. 

"Celebrating anything in particular?" Dorian asked, disappearing briefly into the other room and producing the bottle.

"Anything at all?" Bull said. "Perhaps your nap earlier. It must have been a good one, if you didn't hear me knocking."

Cassandra smiled faintly. "As I mentioned earlier, I must have been tired from sleeping poorly last night."

"This one not a good bunk mate?" Bull said, jerking his thumb at Trevelyan. "You should have told him to let you rest."

"I have no complaints about the company," Cassandra said. "He was, as always, a perfect gentleman, and he does not snore, unlike some others. My quarrel is with the mud." 

"I see," Bull said. 

"I hope you slept better on the same terrain," she said.

"We opened your door," Dorian said. "We were worried, because you've never not answered before. You weren't in your room, Cassandra."

"So we did a little investigating," Bull continued. "Old habits spy hard. Ah, die hard."

"We heard the most interesting noises," Dorian said, tapping one finger to his lips thoughtfully. "What did it sound like, kadan? Remind me."

"It sounded like someone getting their brains fucked out," Bull said helpfully, rubbing Dorian's thigh. "I could reenact some of it if you like."

"And these sounds seemed to be coming from the Inquisitor's room, which is very odd, since as we know, our dear Maxwell is romantically impaired at the moment." Dorian draped himself against Bull. "You can understand our confusion."

"And our conclusions," Bull said. "Which are that if Cassandra took a nap, she didn't take it in her own bed."

"And that she slept much less than she would have had us believe," Dorian said. "Which, bravo, Seeker, I didn't know you had it in you to lie to my face. Again." 

Trevelyan took a slug of whiskey and passed the bottle to Cassandra. She tipped it to her lips. "What sleuths you've become." 

"You said you'd let us know if you found her," Bull said. "Was she under something? You, for instance?"

"In point of fact, he was under me," Cassandra said. "Although not when you knocked. Are you satisfied?"

"Perfectly," Bull said. 

"I would prefer if you didn't share this information," Trevelyan said. He reached for Cassandra's hand. 

Bull shrugged. "I only work for you these days, boss."

"I was planning to put up posters all over Skyhold," Dorian said, "but I suppose I could hold off on getting them made."

"It is a private matter," Cassandra said. "We will not let it interfere with our work, if indeed it continues." 

Trevelyan glanced at her. There were a thousand questions on his lips, but he said nothing. She handed the bottle to him and he washed away the words with whiskey, letting it burn away his insecurities. At least they had had one afternoon of nearly unadulterated bliss.

"Hmm," Bull said. 

"Oh, come now," Dorian said. "Just a few nights ago you were extolling his virtues. Now you've tasted that formerly forbidden fruit and you don't want more? You're not fooling anyone, Seeker." 

"Some things about the situation have changed," Cassandra said. "Some things have not."

"One...nap doesn't mean anything, necessarily," Trevelyan told them. 

"It does if you're already madly in love," Dorian said, rolling his eyes. "Look at you two. You're sparking all over. You're sparking so much I'm worried for that sofa." 

"Infuriating," Cassandra said, but a little bit fondly. She borrowed the bottle and then handed it back after a sip of whiskey. Trevelyan passed the bottle back to Dorian. 

"We're happy for you two idiots," Dorian said. "But if you insist on being unhappy, that's your right. We're going to bed. You do as you wish." He rose from the chair arm and Bull followed him. 

Trevelyan looked at Cassandra. "Are we insisting on being unhappy?"

She rolled her eyes. "There is nothing wrong with caution in this situation. Not everyone must find it necessary to propose marriage after sleeping together once. We have insisted on nothing yet." 

He stood up from the couch. "Will you join me tonight?"

"Of course," she said, letting him help her up. "I will join you any night you wish."

"Cassandra," he said, gazing into her eyes, "what are we doing?"

"I am not certain," she said. "I believe we are in love. All lovers have their challenges to work through. Ours may be more complicated than most. But at the moment, all I know is that I want you to take me to bed and fulfill your promise to remove every stitch of this utterly unnecessary clothing."

"I can do that," he said with a smile. He was already kissing her by the time they made it through the door of his room. He made a production of undressing her, spending time on each button and buckle, piling her clothes in a heap like trophies. She fumbled impatiently at his uniform. He helped her strip him off his jacket and his shirt, his breeches and his smallclothes. They were bare against each other and he certainly felt the spark of which she had spoken. It lit up every part of him, made his heart into a beacon that might serve to call her home. 

He kissed his way down her body, kneeling before her, pausing to admire the scars and stretch marks that decorated her skin. She pushed her fingers through his hair, the gesture confident and loving. Her lack of self-consciousness was a delight to him. He tasted her, the salty, musky tang of her, before she drew him back up for a kiss. 

"Another time," she said. "When we are home, and have the comfort of our own quarters." 

"Our quarters?" he asked with a smile.

"Perhaps I will forsake the forge from time to time," she said. "Tonight I cannot bear not being able to kiss your lips and look into your eyes. I need all of you."

"You can have as much of me as you like," he promised. "And when we get home, when we have time and comfort, perhaps we can make the ropes serve new purposes."

"I would like that very much," she said. 

He pulled her gently toward the bed, pressing his body to hers, and pulled her knee over his hip. Together they slicked the wetness of her along her folds. Together they helped him slide into her. They moved in sync, rocking against each other, finding a gentler pleasure than they had before, but a sweeter one. He murmured his heart to her, words he knew she couldn't hear but understood all the same. She answered in kind. He could feel the light spreading through his body, as if the anchor was growing again, filling him with sparks that jumped between them. He attended to her pleasure, making her gasp and whisper his name. Her bliss was all he wanted, the greatest goal and achievement he could imagine in the moment. Her body arched against his and he followed her, clutching her tightly. 

"My Max," she whispered, brushing her knuckles against his beard. He turned his head and kissed her hand. 

"I am bound to you," he told her, and she drew him close.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Twenty-Four**

Madeleine had slipped away from the Caprice easily. Benoit hadn't looked twice at the sailor with her long black hair tucked up under a cap, carrying a sack full of lemons over her shoulder. She would go to the offices of House Duvalier and declare herself. She would discover the details of the contract on her life. One way or another, she would free herself from the contract, and then she would refuse Benoit Montvallée. There was little wrong with him in principal, aside from the usual boorishness, but she would have no man but Philippe Lefort. She had pledged her heart and it could not be reclaimed. 

With her family's resources, she might convince Philippe to use the Caprice as the seed of a new merchant fleet. Each house had always contracted independently with the captains who transported their goods. What could House Duvalier achieve with a dedicated fleet? They might take over the world. Her father could not object to a match that strengthened the family so much. 

He couldn't.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day starts well, at least.

Waking up next to Cassandra was still a miracle. He had thought that he had been lucky when they were clothed in the tent in Emprise du Lion, but feeling her naked body rouse next to his was something beyond what he had ever imagined. 

"Good morning," she said, her eyes still closed but her lips curving into a slow satisfied smile. 

"Andraste's light, you're beautiful," he said reverently. 

"I might be able to get used to waking up like this," she said. He felt her hand slide down his body, her fingers loosely encircling his very interested cock. "And good morning to you." 

He muffled a groan. "Just happy to wake up next to you."

"You have always been 'happy' to wake up next to me," she said, opening her eyes and gazing at him, amused.

"I thought you didn't notice," he said, inhaling sharply as her fingers moved. 

"I always noticed," she said. "I presumed it was a matter of biology rather than a compliment."

"Why can't it be both?" he asked, and made a surprised noise as she pulled him on top of her.

"A change of perspective," she said, but it was still a team effort as they made slow, tender love, moving together as if they'd been doing this for years. Maybe all they'd ever done together had been practice for this perfect synchronicity. He rocked slowly into her, catching his breath at the feel of her around him. Maker, he would never get used to it. He watched her face change as he moved, her smile widening like the light at dawn.

When they were finished, they lay together. He dappled her face with kisses and she smiled. 

"We cannot miss breakfast," she said at last. "I am sure they have prepared an entire spread. We are lucky we keep soldier's hours, or we would not have had time to dally this way. "

"There are time I wish you weren't always right," he said.

She laughed. "I am frequently wrong. I did not think you were truly in love with me."

"How?" he asked. "I even said it once and had to try to save myself."

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I thought you had misspoken, as you said. I have doubted for many years that anyone might fall in love with me again." 

He stroked her hair away from her face. "You have had my heart nearly since the beginning. One morning while we were still scouting the Hinterlands, when it was still only you and me and Varric and Solas, I looked at you and I knew. You had drawn your sword and you were frowning about something and the sun was glinting off your armor and I felt it begin, like an avalanche that starts with a snowball."

"So early," she said, raising her eyebrows. "And so ordinary a beginning." 

"You never suspected?" he asked.

"I thought perhaps you wanted to bed me," she said, "in an idle sort of way. To see if you could, perhaps. Or that you were amusing yourself by flirting with the stuffy old woman, just to see what she would do. I did not imagine there was more to it than a transitory pleasure."

"You're not stuffy or old," he said. "We're nearly the same age. And all the flirting was genuine and entirely heartfelt."

"And yet you flirt with Scout Harding and with Dorian," she said.

"It's different," he said. "That's banter." 

"One day you can explain it to me," she said, kissing him. "For now, I must dress myself." She slipped out of bed and put on his robe, gathering her things. 

"Cassandra," he said. "When did you know? Only when you were bound?"

"When you came stumbling out of the snow after Haven," she said, with a reminiscent smile that twisted at the edges, "and my heart leapt into my throat." She smiled. "For a long time, it seemed to be a pure sort of devotion, a type of holy passion. I hoped only to serve your cause, and you at the head of it. It took the ropes to teach me the measure of my desire, how tightly it twined with the rest. I began to feel I could not be entirely myself without your touch. I needed more of you than I might have." She came back to him and leaned down to kiss him. "You make me greedy, you know."

"What an honor," he said, and pushed up on his elbows to kiss her back. She lingered there, grinning against his lips. 

"I will see you at the table," she said, and pulled herself away. He watched the satisfied sway of her hips as she walked toward the door. 

He rolled himself out of bed after she had gone, washed, and dressed. He was glad to be heading back to Skyhold. It would mean days on the road, but at the end of it would be his own bed, and his own people, and possibly waking up next to Cassandra. He would have everything, if he had her love and the Inquisition. He would be fortified to face his fate. 

He joined them all at breakfast. It was strange to leave his pack for a servant to bring down. Even as the Inquisitor, he usually lugged his own equipment. But Dorian had assured him it was how it was done. The family was all gathered, gazing expectantly at Trevelyan. He took his seat and waited. They said a prayer and passed things around: porridge, bacon, eggs. To Bull's delight, there was cocoa. The children watched in rapture as he slurped down an entire bowl of it with relish, burping at the end. They giggled and he winked.

"Marvelous guimauves," he told Lord Verranthus politely.

"Thank you," Lord Verranthus said, looking faintly puzzled. "One of our chefs is from Orlais. He insisted on introducing the children to them."

"We have to import them to Skyhold," Bull said. "All the resources of the Inquisition, and we just can't get decent guimauves." He shook his head sadly.

"We'll send some along!" Lady Verranthus said.

"I would appreciate that deeply," Bull said, and everyone looked pleased. 

It was a nice meal, but Trevelyan was looking forward to leaving the Verranthus estate. At least his people had learned not to regard him as if he were a god or some sort of figurehead to be celebrated. They said their goodbyes on the front steps and Trevelyan checked the straps on his pack and accepted the reins of his horse. 

"Shall we?" he said to his party. Harding was already mounted. 

"I am staying," Cassandra said. "I spoke with Scout Harding about this last night. She agreed that this new outpost would benefit from a strong hand, at least at the outset. I will supervise their efforts for a few weeks. This is a vulnerable location. We do not want to lose our soldiers to the Venatori or a Tevinter force."

"That does sound like my people," Dorian said from the saddle. "Always scheming to steal the next ruin."

"You're staying?" Trevelyan repeated. "Were you going to discuss this with me?"

"I am more than capable of making this decision on my own," Cassandra said. She stepped closer. "You have always trusted my insight. Do not hesitate now." 

He gazed at her, as if they could have the conversation he longed for entirely via their eyes. He wanted to ask if she was changing her mind, if she was staying because he was going. She was right: it was a good choice. It did no good to have taken the castle from the Venatori if they weren't going to train and fortify the troops to defend it. Was she taking on the responsibility for professional or personal reasons? Or was this her way of reminding him that the professional reasons would always, always come first? But this was her duty to the Inquisition and to Nevarra. It felt like holy work, serving the Maker's will. 

"If Cullen were here, he would tell me to listen to you," Trevelyan said at last, reluctantly. 

"You would tell yourself, under other circumstances," she murmured so that only he could hear. 

"Again with always being right," he said, with a smile that he could feel was crooked. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her. He certainly wasn't going to do that in front of everyone, no matter how much he longed to say a proper goodbye, their first of many, no doubt. 

"All right, Seeker," he said aloud. "Maker guard and guide you in your efforts. We'll see you back at Skyhold." 

"Maker guard and guide you," she echoed. He swung up onto his horse and she squeezed his knee, hidden from the others by the bulk of the horse. 

"I will see you soon," she said, and he reached down and hooked his finger briefly through her rope bracelet. She smiled up at him with luminous eyes and stepped away. 

"Ready, boss?" rumbled Bull, sympathy in his eyes. 

"Let's go," Trevelyan said. 

It didn't matter what the horse's pace was: his heart beat out her name now. They rode at a steady clip through the drizzle and the mud. They were all splattered with it by the end of the day, gritty and exhausted. It was too dreary to sit and drink around the fire. Even Dorian's mustache drooped. Trevelyan offered to share his tent with Harding, but she demurred, bunking with the scouts instead. She liked to keep in touch, she said. Trevelyan was half-grateful, but he walked into the empty tent that night with its single bedroll and wanted to kick something. Cassandra should have been there. He ached to pull her into his embrace. He undressed enough to keep the mud out of his bedroll and crawled into it. He'd had a scarf in his pack that was soft enough to pillow his head on, a little extra cushioning. He rummaged for it and caught the edge of a paper that had been folded and tucked into the front cover of _A Verse From The Heart_.

 _Max_ , said the note, _my dear Max, don't be angry. I would have told you last night, but I did not wish to interrupt our other conversations. I would not exchange the time we spent together yesterday for anything. You know as well as I do that this is what is necessary. My heart travels with you. If this is meant to be, an interlude of a few weeks will not destroy it. Believe that I will be longing for you all the while, and that our reunion will be sweeter for it._

_Love,  
Cassandra_

There was a scrawled addition at the bottom that instructed him to ask the healer about certain herbs. He squinted and recognized them: the corresponding herbs that he might take to eliminate the risk of pregnancy. Again he felt the simultaneous thrill and pang. What an idea, the notion of a family with Cassandra, if that was indeed what she might want someday. Until then, the near-certainty that they would not risk a situation that might endanger her or a child. It was her prudence, not a tacit rejection of him as a candidate worthy enough to bed, but not to build a future with. He knew her by now. She wanted to continue their liaison indefinitely. That was hope and more than hope.

He tucked the letter into his shirt and reached again into his pack to find the scarf. He folded it under his head. At least the rain on the canvas of the tent was soothing. He drifted off to sleep, acutely aware of the absence of Cassandra beside him. 

Bull rode up beside him the next day.

"You, uh, want to talk about it?" he offered.

"Not really," Trevelyan said. 

Dorian rode up next to Bull. "It might help."

"It might not," Trevelyan said.

"It might not what?" Harding asked. "Is something happening?"

"Nothing," Trevelyan told her. "It's not important."

"Or, perhaps, it's very important," Dorian said, "and you should talk about it. You know how bad I am about taking no for an answer when it comes to these things."

"What things?" Harding said. 

"Nothing," Trevelyan said through gritted teeth.

"Is this about Cassandra?" Harding asked. 

"Why would it be about Cassandra?" Trevelyan asked.

Harding shrugged. "She's not here, which is the only time anybody would talk about Cassandra, and she looked kind of upset when we left. Well, wistful, anyway. Besides, I've seen the way you look at her."

"How exactly do I look at her?" Trevelyan asked, unable to resist.

"Like she's the moon," Harding said, sounding wistful herself. "You know when you're a kid and you just want to reach out and touch it, because it's so lovely, and sometimes you almost think, hey, yeah, _this_ time, I'll do it! But it's always out of reach." 

"Damn," Bull said. 

"Anyway," Harding said, "what don't you want to say about Cassandra?"

Trevelyan sighed. "Still nothing." 

"It might be possible that the moon does occasionally get close enough to touch," Dorian said, casting a sidelong glance at Harding.

"Kadan," Bull said in a tone of warning.

"What?" Dorian said, affecting an affronted tone. "If it's an open secret, why not discuss it with our very insightful friend? I didn't know that Cassandra was wistful this morning."

"Dorian," Trevelyan said, "are you aware of what a secret is?"

"I can go," Harding said, starting to turn her halla, but Trevelyan waved at her to stay. 

"It's all right," he said. "Given your eye for detail, I could hardly expect you not to notice. I may have...touched the moon."

"I think the moon had it pretty bad for you too, Inquisitor," Harding said. "She started to kind of mope around the last time you were gone. She'd either hit the dummies too hard or not hard enough. And she definitely seemed happy at dinner last night." She paused. "If something did happen, why did she stay in Nevarra?"

"Because it's her duty, and duty will always come first," Trevelyan said.

"It wouldn't be fair to ask it of the rest of us and not of herself," Harding said thoughtfully. "Maker knows I can't find a date. Maybe that's for the best on this work schedule." 

"A pretty little thing like you?" Dorian asked in astonishment. 

"He didn't mean that as condescending as it sounded," Bull told her, grinning.

"Then thanks, I guess," Harding said, winking back at him. 

"I'm sure I could find you a date if you need one," Bull said. "And it isn't even me. Although if you're interested, we might be able to come to an arrangement, if Dorian is willing to make an exception."

"It won't involve me," Dorian said. "Not in any nude capacity, anyway. I might not mind watching. I know how you feel about redheads."

"I'll consider it," Harding said. "I was kind of hoping Ambassador Montilyet might follow up on those flowers, but no joy."

"I can make that happen," Bull offered.

"It's nicer when these things happen on their own," Harding said. "But I'll let you know if the situation gets desperate."

Trevelyan said nothing, not wanting to focus their attention back on himself. He felt a little better. Harding was right: Cassandra asked the same of every member of the Inquisition. Of course she had to hold herself most stringently to the rules. She could allow the soldiers to love their families first, but Cassandra was the Inquisition, just as he was. She could not appear to be distracted until their mission was fulfilled. 

When they got back to Skyhold, he was going to rally the troops and make the last march to free Thedas from the grasp of Corypheus. He might dissolve the Inquisition, or he might pledge it to the service of the Chantry. Plenty of good people had found a purpose in the Inquisition, and it seemed there would always be demons to fight and roads to build. With the remnants of the Templars and any Grey Wardens who might still live, the Inquisition might reinvent itself, like a sword forged into something new. A plough, perhaps, or a suit of armor, or even the iron rim of a wagon wheel. 

They would be liberated, then, all of them, from the needs of the Inquisition. Someone else might make the decisions. If Cassandra didn't take up the mantle of the Divine, they could be together: build a house somewhere, perhaps raise a family, do good works. If she did become Divine, perhaps they might continue as an open secret. Divines had taken lovers before, he was certain of it. He would rather see her once in a while than not at all. If there was anything he had learned, it was that no one could wear such a title all the time. It took loving hands to help one set it aside, for a game of Wicked Grace or a night of sweet nothings or a series of childish pranks. 

When he came back to the moment, Bull and Harding and Dorian were still chatting, and still flirting, and he smiled to himself and shook his head. Some things never changed and that was a comfort. 

The weather cleared that night. The rest of their ride back to Skyhold was uneventful: a few detours to close small rifts, a broken bridge here, a lost sheep there, a handful of demons to slay. The Inquisition's work was never finished, but sometimes it was simple. The camps got progressively better again the closer they approached. The soldiers played music around the fire at night and Trevelyan smiled. It was bittersweet to ride through the gates of Skyhold. In transit, he hadn't entirely left her behind, but in his own stronghold, there was no doubt of the lack of her. She wasn't in the yard or the hall or his quarters. She was leagues away in Nevarra, camping in a ruined castle.

He lay in his own bed and touched the letter still tucked against his heart. _My heart goes with you_ : that was an important part. It couldn't have been easy for her to write.

He could write her a letter. It might be opened and read by the messenger, but most of them were afraid enough of Leliana that it might pass unscathed. But what would he say? He was not an eloquent man, beyond the noble polish of his speech. Perhaps he could tell her the story of what it was like to fall in love with the moon. There was poetry in that. She might enjoy it.

He fell asleep composing the first lines of it in his head, and dreamed that he and Cassandra stood together in a forested glade, and that stars fell all around them while they embraced.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Twenty-Five**

Philippe found the offices of House Duvalier easily. He just followed the scent of money. He trusted his crew to care for the Caprice. He had to see Madeleine. She wasn't hard to spot: he looked in the center of the swirling crowd and there she was, gowned and groomed, her voice arch. It made him tingle to hear her giving orders. He had never seen her in her own world, where she was captain. He caught her eye and let his eyelid shiver in what wasn't entirely a wink. 

"Show Captain Lefort into my office, please," she said in a tone of command, gesturing vaguely toward him. The young man she'd addressed swallowed hard and approached Philippe. 

"Captain Lefort? This way, please," he said. 

"Thank you," Philippe said in his most pleasant tones. They climbed the stairs to the grand office and had almost reached the double doors when Benoit Montvallée burst into the room. 

"Lady Duvalier!" he exclaimed dramatically. "I thought I had lost you!"

"I have never been lost," Madeleine said in a chilly voice. "Contain yourself, Lord Benoit."

Montvallée pointed up the stairs. "That man! Why is your abductor here?"

"At my request," Madeleine said. "As you are not. You may see yourself out, Lord Benoit."

"But we are to be married!" Montvallée said.

Madeleine smiled, the curve of her lips amused and less than kind. "I find the terms of that agreement...unsatisfactory." She let her eyes rake up and down Montvallée. "Quite unsatisfactory. Good day, Lord Benoit." The guards put their hands on the hilts of their swords. Montvallée made as if to step forward and then reconsidered. 

"This isn't the end!" Montvallée shouted as he stormed out. 

Madeline turned her back on him. Philippe caught her eye, only for a moment, and felt the jolt of the connection between them.

"I will be engaged for some time," Madeleine said to the scurrying attendants who waited on her every word. "I prefer not to be disturbed."

"Yes, Lady Duvalier," came the chorus, and Madeleine swept up the stairs, the skirts of her gown frothing, and carried Philippe into the office with her.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does everyone know? Maybe everyone knows.

He found ways to occupy his time without Cassandra. There was plenty of work to be done planning the final stages of the campaign against Corypheus. The War Council met each morning, and it was astonishing how much information Josephine, Leliana, and Cullen had to keep in their minds at all times. He had thought that he had a lot to remember as the Inquisitor, but it was truly humbling to watch them work. They knew specifics about everything, minute details. They had culled information from all over Thedas and used it to the advantage of the Inquisition. Josephine could tell him the family history of every noble in Orlais and beyond. Leliana could tell him everything those nobles wished he didn't know. Cullen knew what the troops would require for the effort they would demand, offering measurements down to the pound. 

He spent hours in the forge with Dagna, forging new armor and weapons, customized and fitted for each of his companions. It was soothing work somehow, despite the heat and the noise. He smiled as he hammered, shaping the armor exactly. They would all have their roles to play. They needed the tools that would make their work possible. He clothed Dorian in velvet and Sera in plaideweave. He made a grip for Varric's Bianca and a blade for Solas' staff. He walked among the troops with Cullen, inspecting, saluting, giving the people a little inspiration for the hard days to come, as uninspiring as he still felt. He trained with Heir.

All the while, he waited for Cassandra. There were nights he went out on his balcony to gaze at the moon. But then again, there were nights that he screwed hooks into the wood frame of his bed and practiced his knots on his chair. Maker, he missed her. The ache in his chest was so deep that he even went out to slash at her dummies, hoping it would ease the need for her. It did, for a few moments, but then he was longing for her again. He yearned just to talk to her. She had always advised him well. Why she didn't come to the War Council at Skyhold perplexed him, but he presumed she had her reasons. 

She always had her reasons, and they were almost always righteous. 

Their dalliance, or the consummation of all their unspoken wishes, or their surrender to their aching hearts, or the spark that had made them go up in flames for each other: whatever it had been, it felt like a dream. The only thing that made it real to him was the letter she had written, and her reassurance that her heart traveled with his. Otherwise, he would have imagined that he had imagined it all. He still went to the herbalist, brewing his herbs into tea and drinking it before bed. The faintly minty taste was soothing, whatever its effect. He prepared for a future that included her. He had always had faith in things unseen.

Varric had come back from wherever it was Varric went. Trevelyan sought him out. Varric always had the best advice next to Cassandra, and it was frequently more palatable. Varric was a dwarf of the world. He took a practical view of things. Trevelyan found him in the hall, reading some documents with his boots propped on the low table in front of the fire. 

"Inquisitor," Varric said comfortably. "Need something?"

"Just thought I'd say hello," Trevelyan told him, pulling up a chair. "How's life? Heard from Bianca lately?"

"Life is fine," Varric said. "Probably because the answer to the other question is no. I assume her husband came home. That usually means fun new tools for the forge, which keeps her busy and which, by the way, is not a euphemism."

"I wasn't going to ask," Trevelyan said. 

"You?" Varric said. "Rumor has it you've been spending a lot of time in the forge."

"Dagna's been helping me craft some things," Trevelyan said. "We're going to need all the help we can get. New armor and weapons are part of that."

"You don't need to trouble yourself on my account," Varric said. "Bianca and I, we do just fine. The crossbow, I mean. This is going to get confusing now that you've met."

"I made a new grip for you if you want it," Trevelyan told him. "But I'll let Dagna handle the installation."

"Even Dagna may have a hard time handling Bianca," Varric said smugly. "Again, the crossbow. The other Bianca would either tie Dagna up and gag her or we'd never see them outside the forge again."

"Hmm," Trevelyan said. "An interesting thought."

"Yeah," Varric said, "I should put it in a book. _The Dueling Smiths_. Will they be rivals or lovers? People eat that up."

"I thought you were done with romance," Trevelyan said. "No more _Swords & Shields_, right?"

Varric barked with laughter. "What, the last installment didn't get you far enough with the Seeker? At some point, you have to start writing your own romance, my friend."

"I don't need..." Trevelyan began, and started over. "I wasn't asking for more. Just asking in general. I know there's always more to write about Hightown."

"She didn't get you into it, huh?" Varric shook his head with a wry smile. "And here I thought you'd be an easy sell when it came to the wronged knight-captain. You're just as much of a softie as Cassandra is, deep down."

"Why do you say that?" Trevelyan asked.

Varric gestured vaguely with one hand. "You're both full of romantic ideals. Truth, justice, mercy, all that nonsense. It's sweet." 

"It's sweet," Trevelyan said in disbelief.

"It is," Varric insisted. "Of all people, Cassandra ought to be jaded, but instead she still has this heart full of hope. And you've got the fate of the world looking over your shoulder, but you still make time to do nice things for your friends, even when it will make them mad at you." He shrugged. "There are people who might say it was naïve of you, but I think you just believe in a world the rest of us don't live in. I hope the two of you like it."

"It's a nice world," Trevelyan said, slightly defensively. 

"I'm sure it is," Varric said. "How about you dream up a world where I don't make dumbass mistakes like bringing red lyrium to the surface, and Corypheus doesn't do all the shit he does?"

"I'm working on that second one," Trevelyan told him.

"Can't do much about the first," Varric said. "I understand. Well, it isn't like I wasn't already doing a lifetime of penance anyway." He grinned.

"Do you want me to judge you?" Trevelyan teased. "I make good deals. I could banish you somewhere sunny and warm if it would make you feel better."

Varric laughed again. "Thanks, but no. I've been judged enough."

"That sounds fair," Trevelyan said. He stood up. "I'll let you get back to your bills of lading and what have you."

"Nice talking to you," Varric said. "And about that world of two - you might try kissing Cassandra, if she ever gives you an opening. I'm pretty sure part of that secret romantic heart has your name written on it."

"What makes you say that?" Trevelyan asked, his mouth dry. It was ludicrous that this made him nervous. It wasn't as if he hadn't kissed her already. Somehow it was different, to hear it from Varric.

Varric shrugged. "Long years of mining all my friends' lives for narrative interest, not to mention my enemies' lives. And as much as I'd like to deny it, I may have a romantic streak myself."

"As your fascination with a certain unnamed someone would attest," Trevelyan said.

Varric acknowledged this with a nod. "That's a whole other story, and one Cassandra probably wouldn't like at all. She likes the happy endings. I don't know why she thinks anyone in this story is going to get one, but every now and then she looks at you when you're not looking and I get the feeling she wants to smile. That's a big step for the Seeker. Where is she, anyway? She didn't come back with you." 

"Still in Nevarra," Trevelyan said, glad he didn't have to come up with a response to the rest of Varric's speculation. "Training the troops to hold the new place against the Venatori who will probably want it back. Probably building fortifications with her own hands. Impressing the hell out of a noble family with her pedigree."

"Take it with a grain of salt," Varric said, "but I think she likes you more than she thinks she should, and it isn't just because you're the Herald of Andraste and she's maybe the most devout person I've ever met who doesn't wear a long white robe to work." 

"I don't think I've ever read anything about kissing your way into heaven," Trevelyan said. "But I guess there hasn't been a Herald of Andraste before."

Varric raised an eyebrow. "You should look into that. It beats the hell out of some of the other methods."

"I'll pray about it," Trevelyan said. "Thanks, Varric."

"Any time," Varric told him. 

Trevelyan crossed the hall and went up to his quarters. He had such good people around him. His heart was filled with a profound gratitude. Even without Cassandra, he was content. Because of his team, their complementary strengths and their indomitable spirits, they had a fighting chance to save the world. He pored over the books that Dorian had given him on anything related to Corypheus until he fell asleep, Cassandra's letter in his shirt and the note she'd left him once still crackling in his pillowcase. 

Cassandra was in Nevarra for most of a month. Trevelyan made plans. Everything was coming to a head. He cornered Morrigan and made her tell him all that she'd learned about the Well of Sorrows. He drilled with Bull and Krem until he was twice the fighter he'd been when he'd begun with the Inquisition. He reviewed the lore with Dorian, searching for any hidden weaknesses. 

At night, when he wasn't too exhausted, he touched himself and thought of Cassandra. Sometimes their intimacy came back to him in flashes throughout the day and he shivered and had to drag his attention back to whatever whoever was saying. He dreamed of her, of course: all the things they'd done and a number of things they hadn't. There was a world of possibilities there. They just had to save it first.

Leliana caught him one day as the War Council was breaking up. "A little bird told me Cassandra will be home soon," she said in her precise way. "I thought you might be glad to hear it."

"Thank you," Trevelyan said. "It will be good to have her back at Skyhold."

"Yes, she has been very much missed," Leliana said.

"Don't tease him," Josephine told her, lingering in the doorway. "The Inquisitor puts up with enough."

"If he can't take the heat, he should not be involved with Cassandra," Leliana said.

"He shouldn't be what?" Cullen asked in amazement.

Trevelyan wondered if it was possible to sigh all the breath out of his body and expire on the spot, but if he didn't, he wouldn't get to see Cassandra. At least Morrigan had left, hurrying away on some errand of her own. "I am, as it seems everyone knows, desperately in love with Cassandra. She may return some of those feelings."

"I once walked in on them in the Inquisitor's quarters," Josephine said. "Curiously, they were both completely clothed, but the connection was obvious." She grinned. "They were breathing very quickly, as I remember."

"You didn't interrupt anything intimate," Trevelyan told her, only half-lying. "But the situation may have developed since."

"You and...Cassandra?" Cullen asked, staring at Trevelyan. "Cassandra Pentaghast."

"Is it so astonishing?" Trevelyan asked, getting irritated. 

Cullen closed his mouth, which had been hanging open. "I suppose not. I just never imagined her with anyone in particular."

Trevelyan bowed ironically. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm Inquisitor Trevelyan, and apparently I'm particular."

"It would be like dating a thunderstorm," Cullen mused, half to himself.

"Moody but electric," murmured Leliana, clearly entertained by her own joke. 

"First of all, I don't understand why this is so hard for everyone to wrap their minds around," Trevelyan said. "Second, I would prefer to keep my personal information personal, for the time being. Cassandra likes to remind me that the Inquisition comes before anything else. Neither of us would compromise that."

"I think I could use your grand love story to our advantage," Josephine said thoughtfully, "but you're right. Our enemies might leverage this against us. The Inquisition as a plot cooked up by a pair of war-minded lovers. A scheme concocted to galvanize the faithful." 

"It isn't a grand love story," Trevelyan protested. "It's hardly a story at all yet, and I'd like to one day have the chance to see where it might lead, so please, if this could be a secret for now, I would appreciate it deeply."

"You have no secrets from me," Leliana said, a little coldly. "You have no secrets from the War Council. You may indulge yourself, Inquisitor, but do not imagine you can hide yourself from me. You want to believe this is a private matter only. I will remind you that every step the Inquisitor takes shakes nations. You may not have the luxury of keeping secrets from us. What if she were set up on the road from Nevarra, and captured? You would burn the world to get her back; I can see it in your eyes at the very thought of it. That is vital information for your War Council."

Trevelyan deflated. "It was a dream I never imagined would come true. I would have told you if I'd thought it was important."

"My dear Inquisitor," said Leliana with something approaching Vivienne's archness, "everything is important to a spymaster. You are fortunate that I am so very good at my job." 

"I think it's terribly romantic," Josephine said, her eyes shining.

"It is, rather," Cullen agreed. They all looked at him. "What? I'm not allowed to enjoy a love story?"

"I thought you were afraid of Cassandra a moment ago," Trevelyan said. 

"I am," Cullen told him, "but that doesn't mean I can't be happy that two of the people I admire the most are happy with each other. I'm afraid of Josephine every time I play Wicked Grace, but I still enjoy the game." 

"Are you afraid of me, Commander?" Leliana asked.

"Absolutely," Cullen said immediately, and Leliana smiled. 

"We have concluded our business, Inquisitor," Josephine said. "I believe you are free to go."

"Thank the Maker," he said, and left before anyone could countermand that.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Twenty-Six**

"I would encourage you to take me here on the desk," Madeleine said conversationally, "but the skirts are a bit much."

"I'd make a valiant effort," Philippe told her.

"That's what I love about you," Madeleine told him. She sat in the massive chair behind the desk, arranging her skirts carefully. When she was settled, she gestured to one of the less impressive chairs that faced the desk. Philippe sat. She was certainly the captain of this situation.

"Captain Lefort, I would like to discuss a business proposition," she said, "given that your current contract with my house has been fulfilled."

"Discuss away, my lady," he said.

"Marry me," she said.

Philippe's jaw dropped. "Pardon?" he said after a long pause.

"Marry me," she repeated.

"That's what I thought you said," he told her, and they stared at each other across the bulk of the desk. "It seems like more than a business proposition."

"In my family, business is pleasure," she said with a smirk. 

"So I am beginning to believe," he said.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing like reunion sex.

He could hear the clatter of hooves in the courtyard from the tower where he was talking to Cullen. It was late afternoon and the sun slanted through the windows of Cullen's office. It had to be Cassandra. He'd been waiting for her return since Leliana had told him she was on her way. He tried to go back to the map he and Cullen were studying of their current deployment of troops, but every fiber of his being was yearning toward the door. 

"You should probably go and meet them," Cullen said with a wry smile. "I'm certain she'll have plenty to report."

"Shall we call the War Council together?" Trevelyan asked.

"Oh, I think you can debrief her on your own," Cullen told him. "We'll integrate anything new tomorrow." 

"Am I being foolish?" Trevelyan asked.

Cullen's smile turned genuine. "I hope to be so foolish one day, when there is less to do. Not with Cassandra, mind you. Not that there's anything wrong with Cassandra."

"I understand," Trevelyan said. "Thank you."

Cullen nodded in that way he had, acknowledging and saluting somehow. "Inquisitor."

Trevelyan strolled down the stairs into the courtyard, carefully controlling his speed. It wouldn't do to trip and fall and injure himself. What he wanted to do was fling himself down the stairs, run across the courtyard, throw his arms around her, and spin her around, but he doubted she would appreciate that at this particular moment. So he walked at a normal business-like pace, ready to hear whatever she had to tell. 

She was swinging herself down off her horse when he arrived, but he saw her eyes light up over its withers. She let Dennett's assistant lead the horse away and then approached Trevelyan with the same measured stride he had cultivated. The soldiers with her scattered, drawing their own mounts toward the stables.

"Inquisitor," she said in that rich throaty voice that made him shiver.

"Welcome home, Seeker," he said. "What news from Nevarra?"

"The Venatori have been repelled for now," she told him as they walked up to the hall together. "Improvements to the castle proceed on schedule. There was less damage than we thought at first. Most of the original stones are still there. It is only a matter of putting them back where they belong. The Verranthus family was so thrilled to have the Inquisition on their estate that they are offering to share the costs."

"Josephine will be delighted to hear that," Trevelyan said.

"I agree," Cassandra said, "and then she will want to send me on a thousand more missions in which my role is to play a princess of the realm."

"A role you fill admirably," he said.

She snorted. "Adequately might be a more accurate description, and even then, it is something of a stretch of the imagination." They climbed the stairs. Not for the first time, he wondered why there were no railings. 

"Should we be walking together?" he murmured.

"We cannot always be apart except in your quarters," she said back, her voice pitched low. "I refuse, both on the grounds that it will interfere with our work, and that I wish to be by your side when I can be."

"Excellent points," he said. "But I feel like I can't help looking at you."

"You looked at me before," she said, amused. "I seem to recall you looking at me on a number of occasions." 

"Differently," he said. 

"Then keep your eyes to yourself," she teased. 

Trevelyan raised a hand to Varric as they passed. Varric raised an eyebrow. 

"Good trip, Seeker?" he asked.

"We accomplished what needed to be done," she said, sounding pleased.

"Glad to hear it," Varric told her. "Our Inquisitor has been busy in your absence. I hear he's got gifts for the whole company."

"Is that so?" Cassandra asked, looking at Trevelyan, just the very corner of her mouth curling in a smirk. "How generous of you."

"Yeah, he's a giving guy," Varric said meaningfully.

"Cassandra was going to give me more details on the movement of the Venatori in Nevarra," Trevelyan said. 

"Yes, while the encounters are still fresh in my mind," Cassandra said. "It was very rainy in our camp and my ink ran when I attempted to write a letter."

"I'll see you two crazy kids later," Varric said.

They continued along the hall to the door of Trevelyan's chambers and went inside. Cassandra closed the door, shot the bolt, and leaned against the door frame. Her eyes beckoned him. Trevelyan took a step forward, smiling, and she smiled back as his right hand caressed her face and his left arm slid around her waist, pulling her close. He leaned against her as their lips met. His whole body blossomed at her touch: her mouth, her hips pushing against his, her hands sliding up his waist to his chest. He tried not to groan; they were still too close to the door and someone might hear. He broke the kiss, leaned down, and slid his arms behind her knees and her back, lifting her into his arms. She laughed in delight and wrapped her arms around his neck, her mouth eager and open against his as he braced himself against the heft of her. He carried her around the corner and up the little flight stairs. She leaned to open the door at the top, and he carried her up the next set of stairs. He laid her down carefully on the bed and she smiled up at him as he pulled her boots off and tossed them over his shoulder.

"I did not imagine you would literally sweep me off my feet," she said.

"I like you just as well on your back," he said with a wink. 

She sat up enough to catch the front of his tunic and pull him down on top of her. He toed off his boots as he kissed her, cradling her face in his hands. She kissed him back, her body arching up against his as she made little sounds of delight. Her hands moved over his back, slipping under the hem of his tunic and grazing his skin.

"Maker, I'm glad I didn't imagine this," he murmured against her mouth.

"As am I," she said breathily. "I feared it had been a dream."

"I'm glad you stayed in Nevarra," he said. "I would not have you compromise yourself for this or anything else."

"I missed you desperately," she told him, her fingers digging gently into his back, as if she needed to hold onto him to say the words. "I feared it had been the wrong decision, and that you would no longer want me."

"Cassandra," he said, "I could more easily stop breathing than stop loving you."

" _Oh_ ," she said, her eyes shining. 

"I don't know what you want out of any of this," he said, "but if we live through Corypheus, and if you don't become the Divine...Cassandra, would you marry me? Or not marry me, if that's not what you want, but make a life together? You can...you can take all the time you need to think it through. I know this is sudden and we've hardly begun whatever this is, but it was all I could think of while you were in Nevarra."

"Yes," she said immediately. "Ask me again, after this is finished, but whatever came to pass, I have always wanted to be by your side. Long before we started this, I had pledged myself to you."

"I know it may never come to pass that our work is finished," he said, "but it is a dream I have cherished, these past weeks, that we might find peace together one day." 

"It is a beautiful dream," she said. "Let us imagine what it would feel like to live it, in the hours that we have before we are expected at dinner."

"Nothing would make me happier," he said softly. She pulled him closer for a kiss, her hands sliding around to the fastenings of his tunic. They undressed each other as if it were a form of worship. He traced her scars with lips and fingertips. She caressed his chest, her palm lingering over his heart. They moved slowly, as if they had all the time in the world, even after all of her skin was pressed to all of his. He spent long lingering minutes exploring her folds with his fingers as they kissed with lazy open mouths and her nails dug lightly into his hip. The anchor glowed through her curls. He wondered if she could feel it as he pressed his hand against her. At last she shivered, crying out, and pulled him so close that he had no choice but to slide into her, feeling the way her hips opened for him and her muscles still fluttered with her release. 

"Is this what peace feels like?" she whispered, rocking against him.

"I hope so," he said. 

He sank into her in a kind of holy ecstasy, the heat of her so sweet it nearly brought him to tears. She stroked his face and kissed him and she was everything, the whole world, and she didn't need saving. They would build their own peace bounded by the four posters of his bed. She came just before he did and he was caught up in their mutual pleasure, the only victory he wanted in his life, someday. 

They dressed nearly as slowly as they had undressed. He told her about the plans against Corypheus. She nodded, pointed out a few details that needed to be altered. He got distracted while he was putting on his breeches, because she looked so beautiful that he needed to kiss her right then. They nearly didn't make it to dinner. But somehow they managed to smooth each other's hair and straighten each other's clothing, ending up presentable enough to appear at the dinner table.

"Oh," he said, remembering with a sudden blush, "ah, it may be possible that nearly everyone knows about us."

"Everyone?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

"I didn't tell them," he protested. "But Josephine told Leliana, who probably already knew because she's Leliana and she knows everything professionally, and they both asked me about it in front of Cullen, and Bull already knew, and then Dorian, and Cole, and now Harding knows, but she definitely had noticed already that something might happen one day. Solas and Sera and Vivienne don't know, as far as I know, and neither does Blackwall, but they may suspect, although I doubt Solas cares at all. Oh, and Varric thinks I should kiss you, because you have my name written on your heart."

"He said that, did he," she mumbled, but she looked more pleased than angry. "He does have a way with words." 

"Do you have my name written on your heart?" he teased.

"My heart and other places," she teased back. "Let us go and find our companions, or everyone truly will suspect."

"Plus we need to eat to keep up our strength," he said, winking at her. 

"A hot dinner," she mused dreamily, moving toward the stairs. "A bath. A proper bed."

"Your little hideout has nothing like a proper bed in it," he said.

"I was planning on spending the night in yours," she said. "Unless you object?" 

"I don't," he said, following her, his heart singing at the prospect of holding her all night long when they weren't sleeping on the ground. "Please feel free to join me any evening, my lady." 

"It seems I may take you up on that room in the castle after all," she said, opening the door. "In a roundabout way." 

"I'll have a forge installed in the basement immediately," he said. "Surely they can prioritize that over the other repairs."

"You do love to offer a lady exactly what she needs," Cassandra said. He grinned at her and pressed her gently to the wall for one last kiss before they went to dinner, which turned inevitably into a series of kisses, which nearly made them late to the table. In the end he had to send her out first while he smoothed his rumpled clothing and patted his cheeks trying to fan the flush away.

"We were not certain you would join us tonight, Inquisitor," Leliana said when he came to the table. 

"I wouldn't miss dinner," Trevelyan told her, pretending to be offended. 

"Cassandra was just telling us about the artifacts the Venatori left behind," Dorian said. "Cached away in some secret hiding spot we didn't discover when we were sending them running."

"Our researchers will find them most interesting," Josephine said. 

"Read anything good lately, Seeker?" Varric asked Cassandra. 

"I started a novel called _A Verse From The Heart_ ," Cassandra said, not looking at Trevelyan, "but before that, I had a book about a sailor and the woman he kidnapped for profit."

" _The Knotty Sailor_?" Varric laughed. "Titillating material. I know the author, if you'd like your copy signed. Fair warning, though, she'll probably include a note offering to tie you up, and she will follow through if you encourage her."

"I like this woman already," Bull rumbled. "Can I borrow your book, Seeker? When you're finished with it, of course." 

"Of course," Cassandra said, just a touch of color in her cheeks. 

"Is this an Inquisition or a book club?" Cullen asked, amused. 

"Are you suggesting we all read it together?" Dorian asked with a wicked grin. "Perhaps out loud?"

"Instead of Wicked Grace, we'll have Cullen read to us," Trevelyan joked. "Especially starting around Chapter Fourteen." 

"Oh, have you read it as well, Inquisitor?" Leliana asked.

"I...borrowed it from Cassandra when we were in Emprise Du Lion," Trevelyan hedged. 

"I don't recall seeing you reading," Blackwall said. "But maybe it was after we turned in for the night."

"Solas' spell kept me up," Trevelyan hedged. "There was just enough light to read."

"You're welcome," Solas said dryly. "One corollary of fire is that it produces light as well as heat. I will endeavor to create a version that will not offend you as it keeps you warm."

"Dagna was working on something similar," Trevelyan offered. "You might work together."

"We might," Solas said, in a tone that made it clear that they would not. 

"For the leaders of a cultural institution, you all have such low tastes," Vivienne sniffed.

"Only the finest of Orlesian pornography for you, I take it," Varric said.

"I have no need of such things," Vivienne corrected archly. 

"My mistake," Varric said. "Only the finest of salubrious illusions and enchanted stimulators, handcrafted by horny mages over centuries. I should never have implied that you might need such a thing as words to relieve your urges, Lady Vivienne."

"Outrageous," Vivienne murmured. "How uncouth you are."

"But not incorrect," Varric said with a grin. 

"You lot," Sera said, "you're all disgusting."

"Sera, you draw crude genitalia on every document you can get your hands on," Cassandra said. "I fail to see how that is any less disgusting, as you put it."

"That's all just a bit of fun," Sera said. "I don't banter my actual fantasies about. Ooooh, let's get on a boat and sail around, oooh, let's magick up some kind of dream lover. I save it for the bedroom like a normal person."

"You think _The Knotty Sailor_ is about boats?" Varric chuckled. "Now I can't wait for this book club."

"It sounds fascinating," Josephine said, her chin propped on her hands. "When shall we begin?"

"I'm free on Thursday," Varric said. 

"I'm never free," Cullen said hastily. 

"Relax, Curly," Varric said. "We'll let you keep your clothes on for this. Probably."

"Leave him be," said Cassandra. "Cullen, no one will make you read this book."

Trevelyan stroked his beard. "Let's not be hasty. Can I order him to read it?"

"No!" Cassandra said as Dorian said, "Absolutely yes." 

"We'll just get him drunk first," Varric said, "and then offer him the choice."

"I'd pay to see that," Blackwall said. 

"I'm right here!" Cullen protested. 

"No one is going to make you read Cassandra's smutty literature aloud," Vivienne said. 

"But he blushes so pretty when you tease him," Bull said. 

They managed to finish dinner with no further incidents. Trevelyan called for hot water after and soaked in the bath. The tub seemed to be new since dinner, and possibly a permanent installation: a pipe jutted from the bottom of it and ran out over the edge of the balcony. The water was the perfect temperature and scented with herbs. Trevelyan luxuriated in it, washing himself with a fresh bar of soap. He dried himself afterwards, but didn't bother dressing. It was a pity he didn't have a robe like the one at the Verranthus estate. He'd have to see about having one made. He lay on the bed, wearing only a towel, waiting for Cassandra, dragging the ends of a coil of rope idly across his stomach. The cord was smooth against his skin and tickled faintly.

Maker, what miracle did he inhabit that he would get to spend the night with Cassandra? It was almost too much to imagine. He was considering that when she came in, dressed in something like the tunic and breeches he usually wore around Skyhold.

"You seem to be out of uniform," she said. "Good."

He got up off the bed and went over to her. Her skin was still damp and warm. He kissed the corner of her jaw and she sighed happily. 

"You're wearing more clothes than I am," he said. "That doesn't seem fair."

"I could hardly walk through the main hall in your outfit," she said, her hands joining his to undo all the fastenings of her tunic. Why there were always so many was a mystery to him. Her breasts were unbound and he bent his head to kiss them as they were revealed. She murmured and slid her fingers under the edge of his towel, loosening it until it slipped down his thighs. He eased his hand into her half-undone breeches. No smallclothes, as he had hoped, and she was already slick in anticipation. She hummed and moved her hips against his hand so that his fingers slid into her. They both groaned. 

"I have plans," he told her, withdrawing his hand. "Patience, my lady."

"The lady's pleasure is as soon as possible," she told him. 

"This time, you have to wait," he said, circling behind her to pull the tunic off her shoulders. He kissed his way down her spine as he dropped the tunic on the floor and then pushed her breeches off her hips. She let him roll the soft leather down her thighs and calves. He rubbed his face against the side of her leg as he went and she gasped a little. He helped her out of her slippers and steadied her as she stepped out of the breeches and stood before him, entirely bare. 

"It requires plenty of patience for me too," he promised her, sliding his way back up her body, his hand dipping between her thighs as he went. 

"How you tease me," she said, turning in his arms. They were nearly of a height and his cock bumped insistently against the soft mound between her legs. How easy it would be to back her up against his bed and hold her leg over his hip. How tight she would be around him. He shook off the thought and picked up the rope from the bed.

"Hold out your hands," he told her, and she complied, her eyes sparkling. He bound her arms from elbows to wrists and took the long loose end of the rope in one hand as he helped her onto the bed, having her kneel in the center of it. He stood before her, lifting her arms over her head. She nuzzled lightly at his cock as he looped the end of the rope over the hook he'd put in the center of the bed's top. Her tongue darted out and flicked at his head as he tried to focus on hitching her with an appropriate tension. 

"Lower," he said, and she licked down his cock. "I meant you. Sit down."

She sat obediently on her heels, her arms stretched over her head, her back slightly arched so that her breasts stood out. He gave her another few inches of slack in the line so that she could lower her arms slightly if she needed to and tied her off to the hook. He knelt in front of her, reluctant to give up the feeling of her tongue, but desperate to kiss her. Her tongue pushed into his mouth, demanding all his attention; he caressed her breasts, as they kissed, pressing his body against hers.

"Cassandra," he breathed, and she made a little "mm" in response. "Can I use my mouth?"

"Maker, yes," she said breathlessly. He coaxed her back up to kneeling and slid between her knees, the whole length of his body spreading her thighs, until she hovered over his face. His hands on her hips drew her down and he teased her folds apart with his nose and tongue as she gently settled against him. She tasted like some elixir of life and he licked delicately up and down the length of her, pushing his tongue briefly into her before returning to focus on the knot of nerves at the crest of her folds. She was so wet against him; his beard was soaked with her. His hands stroked her thighs as his tongue caressed her, slow circles that had her gasping and grinding gently against his face. He flicked his tongue faster and she responded in kind, her thighs quivering under his palms. He had to feel her, had to feel himself inside her. He looped his arm around her thigh and pushed two fingers carefully into her. She moaned, a long note that started low and ended much higher.

"Max," she gasped, "oh, Max, please."

He opened his mouth further, sucking her in so that his tongue could tease her more effectively. He thrust his fingers into her, crooking them to rub against her inner walls, reveling in the way she clenched around him. She gasped and moaned and pressed against him, a desperate energy running through her into him. He was so hard for her. His erection bumped against his stomach, yearning for her, and he could feel a hot bead of liquid forming at the head of his cock. She spread her thighs just a little wider and sank down just a little further against him. The hand he wasn't fucking her with reached up to find her breasts, beautifully on display for him thanks to her raised arms. She cried out and rocked against him, pleasure shaking her whole body so that she jostled against his face and clamped her knees against his shoulders. She sank down, breathing hard, as he withdrew his fingers. He could feel the wet heat of her cunt against the skin of his chest. He licked the taste of her from his lips and passed his hand over his mouth, wiping her moisture from his beard. 

"I feel both as if I have sinned and as if I have been completely redeemed," she said. 

"Let me know when you're ready to sin again," he told her, trying to ignore the increasingly loud demands of his own body. 

"Fill me," she said and his hips shifted involuntarily at the huskiness of her voice. "I am ready for you, my lord."

He pushed himself up the bed until their hips aligned. Cassandra rose over him and settled back down onto his cock as he guided himself in. Trevelyan had to bite his lip to distract himself; the feel of her almost drove him over the edge. She gazed at him, rising and falling, letting him see her enjoyment as she drove herself down on his cock again and again. He couldn't reach her breasts now, but he could watch her, watch them, watch his cock disappearing into her. Her curls brushed his and tangled together, as if their bodies didn't want to be separate. She rode him with an abandon he had not imagined in her before, unselfconscious, as focused on her own pleasure as his. When she ground down against his pelvis, her arms were stretched entirely over her head and all of her was on display for him as she strained but did not fight against his bonds. It was trust; it was love; it was a pleasure almost otherwordly; it was nothing he'd ever conceived of, when he'd dreamed of her. His hands rubbed up and down her thighs, his thumb finding her clitoris, and she groaned and sagged into the ropes, letting them take her weight. She swayed as she rocked over him, and suddenly her body tightened and she arched again, wracked by waves of pleasure, her hips rolling. He couldn't help himself: he thrust up into her again and again, holding her down against him, and she kept swaying, her cunt clutching around him, and he was rising on a wave like those pushed before a storm, and he crashed into her, trembling, holding her hips down against his and putting all of his energy into sharp little thrusts that kept her shivering. 

"Enough," she gasped after a moment. "Maker's breath, enough." He let himself slip out of her, accidentally grazing against her most sensitive places. She jumped, the movement caught by the rope. 

"Too much?" he asked.

"I would do it again and again," she said, her eyes half-lidded with pleasure. "But I need a few minutes to recover. I am not yet accustomed to such sensations."

He eased out from under her and stood on weak wobbly legs to undo her bonds. She sank down gratefully onto the bed. He coiled the rope and put it in the cabinet, rinsing his hands in the bath. The water was still warm and he touched the side of the tub. It too was warm. Dagna had been busy, it seemed; a self-warming tub was a miraculous invention. He dipped his washcloth back in the water and wiped himself down before offering it to Cassandra. She climbed into the tub, beckoned to him to climb in behind her, and sat in the V of his legs reclining against his chest as he passed the cloth over her collarbones and her breasts. 

"Paradise," she said, turning her face up for a kiss. 

"I agree," he told her, his arms around her.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Twenty-Seven**

"Marry you?" Philippe asked in astonishment. He still couldn't manage to make himself believe that she had said those words. 

"With my fortune and your fleet, we'll conquer the shipping world," she said.

"I don't have a fleet," Philippe corrected her. "One ship, however charming, does not a fleet make."

"You will," Madeleine told him. "Both of us will get exactly what we want."

"What if I don't want a fleet?" Philippe asked, his heart pounding.

Madeleine tapped a finger thoughtfully against her lips as she rose from the chair. "I notice you didn't say you didn't want to marry me."

"Who says that I do?" he asked.

"Who says that you don't?" she countered, standing in front of him and settling onto his lap, her knees on either side of his hips. Her skirts were piled between them, her bountiful cleavage at his eye-level. 

"I do," he said weakly. 

"You do not want to marry me, or you do do want to marry me?" she asked, her voice thoughtful, as if she wasn't shifting gently over his thighs, her meaning clear.

"Madeleine," he said, his hand on her waist. "I won't be a pawn in your merchant games. I fled my own family's house to escape such things."

"You could never be a pawn," she promised. "I would make you my king." Somehow her hand had found its way to his breeches, and her deft fingers made quick work of the knot of his laces. 

"Sailing is my passion," he said.

"We can sail together," she said. "Marry me and we can do whatever we wish." She took his hands and used them to lift her breasts out of the corset as her other hand pushed aside his smallclothes. He could feel very vividly that she wasn't wearing anything at all under her dress, and that her body was extremely sincere in its desire. 

"I can't answer you now," he said weakly as she brushed against him, damp and welcoming.

"That's all right," she murmured, drawing him closer. "Tomorrow is a new day."


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes a lot to get Cullen drunk.

Trevelyan and Cassandra carried on much as they had before their Nevarran epiphany, but with a great deal more sex involved. He bound her legs and teased her until she was limp and hoarse. He tied her into a hip harness and had her wear it around under her clothes. She enjoyed that one very much, she reported back, particularly the rope that went between her legs with its strategically-placed knots. They used the hooks and the columns in the bedroom to great advantage: he bound her to the post one night the way he'd wanted to and she wore a wicked smile as he pushed into her. Some nights they just lay in bed caressing each other, feeling the sweet relief of skin against skin, the reassurance of the other's warmth. 

They didn't spend every night together. It was important to both of them to maintain their boundaries, and Cassandra preferred to spend her menses alone. He missed her when she was gone, but it was a pleasant sort of ache. It gave him time to think about what he'd like to do with her when she returned, and it gave him time to focus his mind on the looming battle. Cullen kept him informed on the movements of the troops and the recruitment effort. They were nearly prepared to take on Corypheus, or as prepared as they'd ever be. All Trevelyan had to do was give the command. He didn't know what he was waiting for, except that the moment wasn't right. He had faith that he would know when that changed. The Maker had always lead him truly. 

He had to talk to Cassandra about what would happen if she became Divine, or if she chose to rebuild the Seekers. But it was easier to get lost in her mouth and the rhythm of her hips. He let the future get folded gently into the present, shoved under the covers of the bed they often shared. 

They all trained in whatever way suited them best. Cassandra beat the hell out of the dummies and on occasion, the hell out of Bull. Dorian called down lightning and blew up more than one tree. Vivienne, for whatever reason, made an ice swan for the dinner table. Cole did a bunch of things that didn't make sense at the time, but by this point, Trevelyan believed that they would. Josephine schmoozed with every visitor to Skyhold and sent more flowers to Scout Harding at Trevelyan's hint. A delighted Harding appeared in the main hall for dance lessons, whatever that meant. Trevelyan wished them well. He didn't know what Sera was doing. She had her own way of doing things. But whatever they did to build themselves up, they all blew off steam together, gathering regularly to play Wicked Grace or throw darts in the tavern. 

It was, as it turned out, very, very easy to get Cullen to read romance novels aloud. One just had to let Bull pick the liquor and have Varric tempt him into a game of Wicked Grace, and then Josephine had to muse that perhaps he would not try it, after all, which was a pity really, since he had such a nice voice, and Leliana to needle him about something Cassandra did regularly (omitting that she didn't read them to others) that he, Cullen, Commander of the Inquisition's forces, would not do, and Cullen grabbed the book, stood on his chair (clothed, which was fortunate or unfortunate depending on one's point of view), and began to declaim. Of course, he flipped to the middle first, which was, he noted in a loud voice, where all the good parts were. 

"Are you certain, Cullen?" Cassandra teased. "Because it sounds as if you have experience with such literature."

Cullen blushed even more than the drinks could account for. "I may have dabbled in my time. Once or twice."

"Don't reveal your whole hand," Blackwall said, rolling his eyes.

Sera clapped her hands and laughed. "Mister Tightknickers had a little dabble! Can you imagine?"

"I thought you didn't approve of such literature, my dear," Vivienne said. Trevelyan wasn't sure why she was there, since she certainly didn't enjoy the games and mostly sat in the corner making snide comments and left after an hour or so, but perhaps she was lonely since Bastien's death. He could understand why she'd stay at Skyhold, at least until the final stages of their plan. 

Sera rolled her eyes and made a rude gesture. "I don't read all that stuff, because it's mostly girl-meets-boy and his business sends her into a swoon bollocks, but it's funny if high and mighties do. Especially this one. It's like he wants you to think he never even heard of fun."

"Have you shown anyone your business, Cullen?" Dorian teased. "Was it immense? Did it make them faint, and if so, was it joy or shock?" Sera rolled her eyes. 

"I've had fun!" insisted Cullen. "I'm a lot of fun."

"I'm sure you are, big boy," Bull said in a soothing voice. "Why don't you read us a chapter or two?"

"Chapter fourteen!" declared Cullen, holding the book out at arm's length and then failing entirely to focus on it. He brought it closer to his face, peering at the pages. 

"Oh no," said Trevelyan, glancing at Cassandra.

"Shh," she said, smiling. "I am trying to listen."

"Josephine, can you stop this?" Trevelyan asked.

"Why would I want to?" she asked cheerfully. 

"All is going according to plan," Leliana said from where she was leaning against the wall. "Do not ruin this for us, Inquisitor, or it will not go well for you."

"You don't need me for the running-the-Inquisition gig?" Trevelyan teased.

"You do not run the Inquisition," Leliana said with a wink. "And we do not need you much longer, I think."

"Then I guess I'll just sit back and enjoy this like a good pawn, shall I?" he asked.

"That would be preferable," Leliana said. 

"I am trying to _listen_ ," Cassandra said, patting his knee under the table.

"'You would not refuse me!'" Cullen declared dramatically, in what was apparently Madeleine Duvalier's voice and then let his voice deepen for Philippe's reply. "I would refuse _any_ gift if it were not offered in the proper spirit." He gestured as he read, nearly teetering off the chair. It did take him two extra shots of whatever it was Bull drank to get him through the sex, and there was a great deal of sputtering, but he did a passable job of reading most of it, and nobody even giggled and threw him off. Cassandra rubbed her knee slowly against Trevelyan's under the table and he tried not to look too distracted. Fortunately, everyone seemed to be focused on Cullen's dramatic performance, which was still happening, with moderate verve. Cullen finished the chapter and closed the book with a dramatic flourish, and then opened it again and peered at the pages. 

"Do people really...?" he began and trailed off, blushing furiously. 

"Yes," Bull, Dorian, and Cassandra said at the same time, and then strategically looked at no one. 

"Oh," Cullen said. "Well." 

"I'd be happy to demonstrate," Bull said. "You certainly wouldn't be my first pupil."

"I'd be all for it," Dorian said, "except that the whole 'I've been tortured' thing might not be an ideal background for this particular activity. But he can watch you tie me up, if he'd like. For research purposes, of course. It might be satisfying to watch a mage get some kind of comeuppance, eh?" 

"Why did Cassandra say yes?" Sera demanded. "You're not quite a usual suspect for dabbling either. All business, but not that kind of business."

"It is my book," Cassandra pointed out. "Surely I would understand this was an activity people took part in."

"Uh huh." Sera crossed her arms, looking skeptical. "Knowing from a book isn't the same as knowing."

Trevelyan looked around, but Vivienne had slipped out. 

"Leave her alone," Blackwall said. "Everyone dabbles in their own way, even if it's all in the mind. I'm sure you've had plenty of ideas you never carried out, Sera."

"I've done most of them," Sera said, clearly proud of herself. "Maybe you should try it, Seeker. If you get laced up tight, maybe you'll be looser when you unknot yourself again."

"I will take that under advisement," Cassandra said. Trevelyan wished he could put his arm around her, although she was very capable of dealing with Sera herself. 

"Another round!" declared Varric, slapping his hand on the table. 

"Chapter fifteen!" said Cullen, and everybody cheered.

Cassandra came back to his room after. They were both tipsy, grinning at each other. 

"I don't think you're laced too tight," he told her, pressing a very slightly sloppy kiss to her cheek. 

"Oh, Sera," Cassandra said with dismissive scorn. "If she cannot tell how unwound I am these days, I pity the women she beds."

Trevelyan undid the fastenings of her shirt and the very lightly padded vest she wore under it, revealing the net of rope he had woven around her earlier in the day. He hooked his finger through one of the diamonds that paraded down her chest and belly and pulled her closer. "I could unknot you anyway, if you like."

"Perhaps we should leave it on," she murmured. "For now." She shed the shirt and the vest that had hidden the outline of the rope, letting them fall to the floor. Under the crisscross of ropes, she wore the thinnest of sleeveless silk garments, imported from Orlais. He could see her scars, the dark hollow of her navel, the rosiness of her nipples. He smoothed his hands up her ribs, enjoying the texture of the silk under his palms and the slightly rougher feel of the rope. 

"Should we?" he asked. "Is that my lady's pleasure?"

"I am sure you will find some way to work around it," she said with satisfaction as he tugged her even closer. 

The door squeaked open.

"Inquisitor?" Cullen said. "I've got your book. Or Cassandra's book, I suppose, but you could give it to her?"

Trevelyan's eyes met Cassandra's. He jerked his chin inquisitively toward the closet, but Cassandra shook her head no. She was right; it would attract more attention. Trevelyan shrugged and untangled his fingers from the ropes. Cassandra dove for the vest and pulled it back on. Her arms were still bare and the regular lumps of the knots and ropes were visible through the quilted fabric, but at least the most relevant parts of her were covered. Cullen still blushed scarlet when he got far enough up the stairs to see them, though. 

"Oh!" he said. "I'd better go. I shouldn't have...sorry. So sorry." He tossed the book in panic and it fluttered over the railing. Trevelyan caught it and put it down on the sofa. 

"Thank you, Cullen," he said. 

"Did you need something?" Cassandra asked.

"Just the book," Cullen said, looking between them. "Just brought it back. Ah, hmm. Am I interrupting?"

"Perhaps you will have a clearer perspective on this question in the morning," Cassandra said. "Good night."

"It seems that life imitates art?" Cullen said. He gestured at his torso in a vague criss-cross pattern, mimicking the ridges under Cassandra's thin vest. "Or perhaps I enjoyed a little too much of Bull's generosity?"

"One finds inspiration in many places," Cassandra said gravely. "Or perhaps we are investigating kinder ways to restrain those who are a danger to themselves or others."

"I see," Cullen said, his voice a little uneven. "A useful activity. I suppose the Inquisition owes you thanks for your diligence."

"That won't be necessary. Good night," Trevelyan told him in a firm voice. 

"Yes, good night," Cullen echoed, and turned back down the stairs. They waited until the door had closed, and then Trevelyan slipped down and locked it. 

"I don't know why I didn't lock it in the first place," he said. "I suppose I'm used to leaving it open for you."

Cassandra was wearing little but ropes again. She'd shed her breeches in the time it had taken him to secure the door. "I appreciate that you do. I would not be pleased to be left out in the cold." 

"I'm sure you wouldn't," he told her. "Where were we?"

"Before Cullen blundered in?" She half-smiled. "We were deciding what my pleasure might be tonight." 

"And did you?" he asked. "Decide? After you finished toying with Cullen, that is."

Her smile broadened. "It might be the liquor, but I would like to be suspended in some way. Madeleine makes it sound so liberating, even when she does so in Cullen's voice."

"We can do that," he said, and took another length of rope from the cabinet. "We've tied you up by your hands before. How about your hips?"

"Oh yes," she said in a husky voice. 

He passed the ropes around her hips and wrapped the cords around her thighs, weaving a supportive harness. He coiled the long ends of the rope around his hand and guided her to the bed, having her kneel on all fours. He passed the ends of the rope over the hook in the ceiling of the bed and adjusted the tension until she was supported by the ropes and by her forearms, her knees a few inches off the bed. She braced her toes against the mattress to keep herself from swinging. 

"All right?" Trevelyan asked. 

"Magnificent," she sighed. 

"I'll add another hook sometime," he said. "Add a chest harness. Let you dangle to your heart's content."

"That sounds like bliss," she said dreamily. "A few moments with no responsibilities would be a boon beyond price."

"Relax," he said. "The only thing you're responsible for now is to let me make you forget yourself."

"I can deal with that," she said, letting her head drop to rest against her arms. "You may begin any time you like."

He knelt behind her, letting his hips push against her ass as he pulled off his shirt. She wriggled against his crotch and he grunted with satisfaction. It was easy enough to work his hand through the cords of the hip harness and hold her still. He pushed aside the rope and the silk between her legs. Both were damp, and he lingered as he nudged at them. She was wet, her folds already slick against his fingertips, and he explored her slowly, as if he wasn't intimately familiar with every inch of her. It was different when they were tipsy. Everything felt more immediate somehow. The textures of her thrilled along his nerves. She was making more noise than usual, inspired perhaps by the liquor or by Cullen's reading. Every time she moaned, some part of him quivered. He pushed forward against her again, letting the ridge of his trapped cock rub between her legs. The cord pressed against the side of his cock, the knot in it just nudging his balls. He could certainly see the appeal. Cassandra gasped and tried to push her hips against his, but just set herself swinging. He took a firmer grasp on the ropes around her hips, holding her in place as he pushed against her.

"Wonderful," she sighed. 

"Do you want more?" he asked.

She chucked into the space between her arms. "I always want more of you."

"Maker's breath," he groaned, "what am I supposed to do when you say such things?"

"Whatever you like," she told him. "Use your imagination." 

He fumbled the laces of his breeches open with the hand that wasn't snarled in the ropes and freed himself from the layers of his garments. He spread her open with his fingers and pushed into her, groaning again. She moaned and let her legs slide wider so that he could notch his hips even closer into hers. The rope was pressed between their bodies, but her moisture softened it so that it didn't chafe. Trevelyan resituated his grip on the harness, weaving his fingers through the rope halfway down her back, and let his other arm lock around her hip as he reached between her legs. He found the knot in the rope and held it against her, letting her decide how she wanted to rub against it. She swung gently from the ropes but still managed to find a rhythm that seemed to satisfy her. He tightened his grip on the harness and pulled her against him, sinking deeper into the heat of her. Oh, Maker, she was a miracle, an oasis in the wilderness, a sanctuary of delights.

They were both noisy now, groaning and sighing. Heat washed through him. He was dizzy with wanting her, even as he claimed her body with his own. Cassandra's breath came in sharp pants as he thrust into her. She ground back against him with a noise of frustration, and he slowed himself, pushing into her in tiny little movements as he stroked the stiff knot of nerves. Her moans got high and breathy and desperate. He reached lower to slick his fingers again, brushing the rope and his own cock, and returned to circling and circling the sensitive place. Suddenly her body jerked, tugging at the ropes, and she cried out. He let himself dissolve in the wave that washed through her, shoving wildly into her as she shivered and her body welcomed his. He pulled out of her, gasping, the cool air a shock against his skin, and untied her from the hook with fingers that trembled and slipped on the rope. She relaxed onto the bed, moving from kneeling to stretched out.

"Filomena," he gasped, and lay down beside her, the undone ropes underneath both of them. 

"That was delightful," she said, reaching out to stroke his face. He turned to kiss her palm.

"I agree," he said. 

"The drinking was unexpectedly enjoyable," she said. "We should try it again sometime."

"Any time you like," he said, yawning. He should get up. They should clean themselves off. He should start a serious conversation about what might happen in the future, when the fight was over: if she was made Divine, if she wasn't. He managed the first two, and he pushed the ropes off the bed, but the rest would have to wait for another day. She looked too drowsy as she passed back the damp cloth, and too pleased. Neither was it a conversation he wanted to have when they were both still feeling the effects of more rounds of drinks than he'd counted. Instead, he stretched out against her in the bed, his skin pressed to hers, and held onto this moment of peace, this boon he had been granted. 

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Madeleine had thought she had made herself perfectly clear, both to Benoit Montvallée and to Philippe, but the second hadn't agreed to marry her and the former had sent her a note urging her to reconsider her rejection (he hadn't written it - the penmanship was too nice and the reasoning too clear). She sat in her bedroom, tapping her fingers on her vanity. 

Everything always fell to her to solve. She ought to be used to it by now. She had thought that Philippe loved her, and perhaps he did, but it was clear he needed convincing to marry her. That ought to be easy enough. She would have thought the previous day's discussion and relations might have done the trick, but he had left afterwards, looking confused. Still, she had more ways and means to talk him into seeing things her way than she did with Montvallée, who seemed to be one of the notable individuals so convinced of their own worth that they couldn't imagine rejection. Madeleine had known plenty of those of all genders. Still, as tenacious as Montvallée's notion of his own appeal assuredly was, she had ideas about dealing with him too. 

Madeleine sighed. She would have to write to her father today and explain how the situation had changed. Fortunately, he trusted her, or at least he always had, and it was easy to explain the appeal of an alliance with Philippe, whose seafaring knowledge and connections would be invaluable. All she had to do was begin instead of dawdling in her bedroom daydreaming about the simplicity of life on the ship and the bliss of being restrained as Philippe satisfied her every desire.

She drew a red lipstick across her mouth as she looked into the mirror. It was a bold beginning. She would make other bold beginnings today.


	29. Chapter 29

It wasn't the last night before they would meet Corypheus, but it was close, close enough that they were in a tent together, listening to the murmur of the army outside, far from Skyhold or any of the nicer camps, deep in enemy territory. It was never entirely quiet in the camp, even in the dead of night. Cassandra lay curled against him in their nest of blankets, with no pretense anymore of not being together. Trevelyan imagined she was as aware as he was that one or both of them might not live to see the new world they were trying to make. She had even let him hold her hand in the middle of dinner. Oddly, their closeness seemed to hearten the troops. He'd expected a few sidelong glances, but everyone who had seen them had seemed pleased. There had even been a few approving nods when he'd held the tent flap open for her. 

"Cassandra," he said, pulling her closer, "we need to talk."

She went very still in his arms, her shoulders stiffening.

"If you are leaving me, this seems an ineffective way to do it," she said.

"I'm not leaving you," he said. 

"Good," she said. "It would be awkward if you had to sleep by the fire. Although it might inspire the soldiers, the Inquisitor sleeping rough."

He chuckled. "I prefer the tent."

"I prefer you in the tent as well," she said. "How nice that we can agree."

He nuzzled against her neck. "If I had my choice, I would never, ever leave you."

"What prevents you from choosing?" she asked, turning to face him.

"What aspect of our lives seems within our control?" he asked, hearing the strain in his own voice. "So much seems fated." 

"The Maker works his will," she said simply. 

"What happens if you become the Divine?" he asked her. "When you become the Divine, most likely."

Her lips thinned in a thoughtful frown. "I do not know."

"Cassandra," he sighed. "There is no way to spare me."

"Truly, Max," she said, flattening her palm over his heart. "I am sure Divines have had lovers before, but it would be frowned upon now. The image of the Divine is of a pure woman unconcerned with earthly matters."

"I know," he said. "That's why I worry."

"I would not forsake you," she said softly. "Not entirely. I could not. We would find time to ourselves when we could."

He put his hand over hers. "A stolen moment here and there would be nothing like the arrangement we enjoy now, for any number of reasons."

"You could not bind the Divine?" she teased.

"The woman who bore the title, perhaps, but not the Divine herself," he said. "You and I both know that the Inquisitor could never romance the Divine. We could never be together openly in any way that would be sanctioned by the Chantry or the Inquisition."

"It would be a powerful alliance," she protested. 

"Too powerful," he said. "No one would stand for it. Nor should they." 

"What will you do with the Inquisition?" she asked after a thoughtful moment.

"I don't know," he said. "I've been thinking about it for months and I still don't know. Do I dissolve the Inquisition and send everyone back to what's left of their homes? Do I ask my soldiers to join the Chantry and serve you instead? Or do we continue as a separate force, putting Thedas back together as best we can?"

"What would you do if I did not become the Divine?" she asked.

"Anything I could to keep you by my side," he said with a smile that was weighted down at the corners by the sorrow of losing her.

"As I would you," she said. 

He wrapped his arms around her and she nestled against his shoulder. He breathed into her hair.

"If I do not become the Divine," she whispered, "what will happen?"

"Whatever you like," he murmured back. "We'll head the Inquisition forever, or we'll give away all our earthly goods and spend our days repairing bridges, or we'll restore the Seekers and the Templars, or we'll leave all of this behind and build an estate somewhere. You once told me you might have been the mother of three children. It might not be too late for that, if your heart desires it." 

"I suppose that is one way to find candidates for the Seekers," she teased, "but it seems rather roundabout and not particularly efficient. Three will not refill the ranks of the Seekers."

"I would give up the Inquisition, if that let us make a life together," he said in a low voice, trying not to overwhelm himself with his own fervency. "I would surrender my name, my titles, my daggers."

"Surely we can find a way," she said. 

"I don't know," he told her, and his voice cracked a little. "It seems so simple, but there are no easy solutions. I may say I will dissolve the Inquisition, but how many purposeless people will I leave to wander Thedas who might need the guidance? I may say I will give up being Inquisitor, but who will wear the mantle after me, if anyone, and what will they do with the trust I have built?"

"It is a heavy burden," she murmured. 

"You will become the Divine, if you are chosen," he said. "You will accept."

"Yes," she said simply. "I serve the Maker's will."

"I know," he said. 

"Do you blame me?" she asked in a voice that nearly had a tremble in it.

"Of course not," he said. "How could I blame you for being chosen? How could I blame the Maker for choosing you? You are the best of us."

"I have worked toward this for most of my life, Max," she said. 

"I know," he said again. "I believe that you are the best choice. I believe that the Maker has touched your life."

"I love you," she said, "but I serve Him." 

"It is the right choice," he told her. "I have never felt His will as you have. He does not answer my prayers quite so directly."

"Am I not here?" she teased.

"He has answered a few of my prayers," Trevelyan amended, "but I do not see His will in all things. I trust that you do."

She reached up to stroke his face. "My Max. I think your faith is stronger than any of ours."

"You overestimate me," he said.

"I could not," she told him.

"So that will be that," he said, cupping his hand over hers. "If you are named Divine. This might be one of the last nights we ever spend together."

"If I am named Divine, it will take me at least a week to pack up my things," she teased.

"Oh yes," he said, thinking of her sparse little alcove in the forge. "Your bedroll and your romance novels. Will those go with you to the Chantry?"

"Certainly," she said. "I am sure Varric will make many jokes about my new holy texts and confuse everyone."

"And what will you do with the rest of your week, minus the five minutes of putting things in sacks?" he asked.

"I will spend it with you," she said, "however and wherever you like."

"Might the former Inquisitor help escort the Divine to her new residence?" he asked.

"Of course," she said, "although we would not be as likely to be able to share a tent as we do now."

"I know," he said softly, "but I would want to know you arrived safely. Will you take Leliana?"

"I do not think she would enjoy being my Left Hand," Cassandra said, a little ruefully. "It might seem like second best. But I would offer her the chance, if you dissolved the Inquisition. Her skills are beyond compare."

"I might as well dissolve the Inquisition at that point," he pretended to complain. "You'll poach half my staff." 

"You inspire the best," she said. "I would do the Chantry a disservice if I did not try to lure them away." 

"Perhaps I'll retire," he mused. "Become very devout. Devote myself to gardening. Keep bees."

"I will develop a sudden need for enormous numbers of candles," she said. "And honey for my tea."

He pulled her close, unable to joke any longer. He couldn't voice the things he wanted to say to her. They were swallowed by the hollow place that opened up inside him when he thought of losing her, of not sharing her life. They'd managed to shape a space for themselves in the Inquisition that let them do their jobs and be together. There was no space like that that the Divine could occupy. There was no place for him in the Chantry.

Inside a week or so, the matter of Corypheus would be decided, one way or the other. After that, surely the Chantry would speak. It was no use naming a successor when three of their candidates had gone forth to the final battle. There was too much chance that one or more of them might not come back. 

A week was better than nothing, but not nearly what he wanted. He sighed into Cassandra's hair. She reached backwards, her hand blindly seeking his pack, and she came up with a bit of rope. She rolled away from him. 

"Hmm?" he said.

"Grasp my wrist," she said, reaching out with her left arm. He wrapped his fingers around her forearm and she did the same, using her right hand to whip the rope around both of them. The pressure of it felt like an embrace. When she looked at him, her eyes were gleaming in the light of the lantern.

"We may never marry," she said, "but Max, I am bound to you, no matter what happens. Have no doubt of that."

"Whatever happens," he said, "I am with you."

She smiled. "How quickly things change," she said. "It was not so long ago that Corypheus attacked. Now we seek to establish a new order in Thedas. You have changed the world, Inquisitor."

"We changed the world," he said.

"I would like to rebuild it with you," she said. "I hope you know that."

"I do," he said. "There will never be a world in which every choice is an easy one."

"No," she agreed. "For some of us, there are no easy choices."

"Next time around, I'll ask not to be the chosen one," he joked.

She laughed. "It would be easier if we were two unexceptional people," she said.

"I wouldn't have you any other way," he said softly.

"Any time I doubt the Maker's will," she said, "I remember that he put you in my path, and my faith is renewed." She slowly unwound the rope from around their wrists. "It is not easier, but it is a comfort."

He folded her in his arms. "For someone who claims not to have a way with words, you have your moments of eloquence."

"You bring out the best in me," she said simply, and he pulled her close again.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Twenty-Nine**

The heavy carved doors swung open on soundless hinges, a spectacle calculated to impress. House Duvalier spared no expense and overlooked no detail. Philippe entered just as Madeleine finished sweeping down the stairs. Her timing was a marvel, as usual. He wondered how and if she'd known he was arriving. He doubted she would answer. 

"Captain," she said. 

"Mademoiselle Duvalier," he rejoined. 

She linked her arm through his and drew him into a well-furnished room where chairs upholstered in plush leather surrounded a long imposing table. It was clearly a room where deals were made and business was done. 

"I won't sit in the big chair," she said with a smirk. "You and I are equals, after all."

"It's a pity there's no middle ground where we could meet," he said, settling into a seat. 

"Well, there are the docks," she said, "but that's less comfortable."

"Physically, perhaps," he said, "psychologically, perhaps not."

"The Duvaliers made their fortune on the docks," she said, her eyes sparkling. "We can move this meeting there if you prefer."

"Madeleine," he said, presuming to cup his hand over hers. "Is this what you want?"

"This is all that I want," she said. 

"Everything?" he asked, hating the helpless note in his voice.

"I never said my tastes were simple," she told him. Her smile dimmed and flickered. "My family matters deeply to me, Philippe. As do you. You and I have a chance to rewrite the rules of the game, together, and to make something new."

"I have all the family I need on the Caprice," he said, though he didn't let go of her hand. 

"And to think I imagined it was more than rope that bound us," she said, withdrawing her fingers from his.


	30. Chapter 30

What is there to say about the final battle that has not been said in story and song? The bards have sung of every moment. Everyone knows how the Inquisitor and his forces rode forth to meet Corypheus in a ruined castle. Corypheus was overmastered by the Inquisitor and his Inquisition. Heroes were forged that day from the humble soldiers who had ventured forth from every corner of Thedas, united against one enemy. Legacies were cemented. The world limped away from another battle, ready to heal. One could hear about it in every tavern: there were rousing, rolicking drinking songs that got the ale flowing and sad ballads about the people lost to the Inquisition and the treasures destroyed. 

The only thing no one ever said was that the Inquisitor was terrified. He was afraid every moment of the battle, not for himself, but for his soldiers, his friends, his world. He was afraid for Cassandra. He would have sent himself into battle alone if he could have, to spare them all. They were the ones who knew what to make of a world. They were the ones who ought to survive. He had stumbled into grace and only just managed not to wreck himself in the process.

Perhaps some part of the mark had come from Andraste, because she had protected him. She had not taken his fear, but she had guided his daggers. He slashed his way through the castle, always aware that the more of Corypheus' minions he defeated, the fewer his friends would encounter. He fought for Cassandra, for Bull and Dorian and Varric and Sera, for Vivienne and Blackwall and even for Solas, despite his distance from the rest of the world. He fought for Cole, who had already lost so much. 

He had had glimpses of possible futures as he fought: Cassandra in the mantle of the Divine, rising before her faithful; Cassandra whirling a child into the air as they both laughed; Cassandra grim before his gravestone; Cassandra's name etched deeply into a monument as his fingertips traced it. He was never certain after if it was a gift from Andraste or something more like the visions he'd had in the Fade. 

She had been the first to him when it was all over. At the touch of her hand on his shoulder, his fear had finally drained away. 

"It is finished," she had murmured.

He had clasped his hand over hers. "It isn't over."

"Things are rarely wrapped up so neatly," she had said, tilting her head in agreement. 

The rest had swept them up in a messy, sweaty embrace, Varric growling, "I knew you could do it, you bastard," and Dorian saying, "I didn't." Trevelyan had laughed, the sound echoing across the battlefield, and it was the thing he remembered best about any of the battles. They were all a blur in his mind, a smoky haze of glinting metal tinged with the smell of blood, but he remembered every detail of being clasped in the embrace of his friends. 

Now, nearly a month later, all the bodies they'd been able to find had been buried or burned, depending on the rites. All the rifts they could find had been sealed. The forces of the Inquisition had been given leave in staggered groups, an opportunity to go home and talk to their families or to rebuild their communities. Vivienne and Blackwall had left Skyhold, both with the stated goal of repairing their reputations. The rest came and went as necessary. The only constant was Cassandra, who lived openly in his quarters now. 

"Isn't there anywhere you'd rather be?" he asked once.

"There isn't anywhere else I could go at the moment," she pointed out, tugging at the ropes that bound her wrists and ankles.

"You know what I mean," he said. 

"I left everything else behind me when I became the Right Hand," she said, "and again when I joined the Inquisition. I am exactly where I wish to be."

"And if a letter came tomorrow from the Chantry declaring you Divine?" he asked.

"Then we would discuss it together," she said. 

"I don't want you to give up your dream for me," he said.

"I never said I would," she said. "I will do as I am called to do. The Maker's will has always seemed clear to me."

"You're lucky," he said ruefully.

"I am well aware," she said. "Not all hear His voice so clearly. But Max, tonight I am where I am supposed to be."

"I'm very interested in a theological reading of this situation," he teased, sitting on the bed and drawing one finger up her bare stomach. 

"Clearly the Maker favors you, to have given you such a gift," she said in a warm voice. 

"He does," Trevelyan agreed, and bent to kiss her.

Later, when he had untied her, they stayed awake long into the night, curled up together on the couch, telling each other stories about possible futures. They lived a dozen lives that night in front of the fire: teaching their children to ride and fight, going on the road together to restore the dignity of Thedas, marrying but never having children, rejoining the Chantry, rebuilding a village and becoming part of the community, attending a Nevarran ball in Cassandra's honor as she fidgeted in her formal uniform. And in all of them they were happy, and in all of them they found some way to be together, or at least near each other. In the cozy circle of light, it felt like enough. What was a marriage, Trevelyan thought, besides telling each other a story about a future that was better together? What was a wedding but a promise made in the sight of others? By that standard, they'd wed a dozen times over, recommitting to their shared purpose and to each other. That could be enough for him, if he was never offered more. It was a boon he had never expected.

"Whatever the morning brings," Cassandra murmured, laying her head on Trevelyan's shoulder, "we will face it together." 

His arm tightened around her. "Together," he agreed.

"Wherever my faith leads me, never forget it brought me to you," she said. 

"I know you'll make the right choice," he told her. "For all Thedas."

"We will make the right choice," she said confidently. "For everyone."

"I trust you," he said, and held her close.

They were safe, for those moments, in the glow of the fire. Outside, an owl hooted in the grove of trees where the snowdrops came up every spring, somehow, despite Skyhold's elevation. Dorian and Bull drank with the Chargers as Krem flirted with the bard. Cole sat on the battlements and smiled at the valley, vast beyond the borders of the camp. Vivienne adjusted her gown and her expression to suit her purposes. Varric wrote a letter he would never send to Bianca. All over Thedas, there were others making plans for a future that seemed brighter, seemed possible in a way that hadn't been true before. The Inquisitor and the Divine's Right Hand were only two heroes in an empire full of them. Andraste had smiled on them thus far. What would it mean if she smiled on them again? 

No matter. The sun would come up. The work would continue. Thedas would be rebuilt: stronger, better, fairer, kinder. The choices they had made would matter. The bonds they had forged would not break. Each day the world was new again, and love bound them all together. There could be no victory sweeter.

**The Knotty Sailor: Chapter Thirty**

They met on the docks. Philippe had sailed out of the harbor the night before and turned the Caprice in the morning, unable to leave Madeleine behind. Madeleine had stood up on the middle of a meeting with her father's emissary, full of an energy she couldn't contain any longer. She gathered her skirts and ran through the streets, down to the harbor, arriving just as the Caprice returned to its berth. Philippe leapt from the deck of the still moving boat and landed on the dock, rising to catch her in his arms.

"I can't not have you in my life," he said into the tumbling mass of her hair, as she said, "What if we spent five months at sea and a month in the city?"

They broke apart, still clasping each other at arm's length, and laughed helplessly as the business of the docks went on around them.

"We'll find a way," Madeleine said confidently.

"You are, after all, a master negotiator," Philippe told her, grinning despite himself.

One way or another, they lived happily ever after.


End file.
